


Works No Longer In Progress, 2013

by copperbadge



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Marvel, Marvel Ultimates, Nero Wolfe - Rex Stout, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Suits (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Kid Fic, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mildly Dubious Consent, SHIELD Agent Darcy Lewis, Sex Pollen, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:57:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 60,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every year I do a post of all the bits of fic I couldn't find a place for. Some stand alone pretty well; most are just starts I don't have the interest or energy to finish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Miscellaneous

_This is a sort of Sherlock Holmes conceptual sequel I was playing around with, where Sherlock Holmes' son was an American musician and the actual deductive power of the pair was John Watson's son, who had been mentored his whole life by the elder Holmes. (No pairing.)_

I met John Watson for the first time on a tour of Europe, after the war. The tour was to raise money for an American society of concerned citizens who were trying to get as many refugees as possible across the pond, where the war had touched us much more lightly.

I'd performed that night in London, and I was sitting in my makeshift dressing room packing away my things when a young man entered with a violin case.

"Mr. Abra," he said, offering his hand. "My name is John Watson."

"No relation?" I joked, and he sighed.

"Son, I'm afraid," he said.

"Christ, I'm sorry -- "

"It's of no consequence, and would have come out in a moment anyway," he said, setting the violin-case on the vanity. "Sherlock Holmes was my godfather."

I raised my eyebrows. "I assume you know who my mother was."

"The Woman," he said, with a small smile. "Elaine Abra. Yes. I was sorry to hear of your loss," he added.

"She had a good life," I replied. It was true; my mother died in bed with a man twenty years younger than she was, and left me more than enough money to live comfortably, and to pursue my music. "I hear your godfather passed during the war."

"Hence my mission," he said, unlocking the case. "I couldn't get over to America during the war, but I swore when it was ended I'd make sure you received your inheritance."

"My inheritance!"

"Yes," he answered, and opened the case.

It lay there, gleaming darkly in the low electric light, a thing of perfect beauty: the Holmes Stradivarius. Any Strad is well-respected amongst musicians, but this was the infamous instrument that Sherlock Holmes had played, a lifelong companion to a man who could have been a brilliant musician himself if he hadn't chosen a different pursuit. I stared at it in awe.

"He wished you to have it," Watson said.

I kept my hands steady as I reached for it, taking it out of the case with infinite care. Someone -- probably Watson -- had looked after it the past few years, and when I plucked a string it was untuned but beautiful.

"I'm afraid it comes with some rather unsettling news," he said. I looked up from the Strad, and he offered me a letter. "Mr. Holmes asked me to deliver the violin and this letter to you."

"Do you know what it says?" I asked, reluctantly putting the Strad back in its case.

"In a general sense. Sherlock Holmes was your father."

It wasn't a complete shock to me. That the son of Elaine Alba would be a musician wasn't unlikely, but that he should show an affinity for the violin...well. Remarks had been made. Still, I always thought it was nonsense. Sherlock Holmes, after all, was an infamous misogynist.

"Hence the Strad," I murmured, setting the letter aside.

"Indeed." He looked uncomfortable. "Well. There you are then."

"Wait -- " I said, as he turned to go. "Just like that?"

"Like what?" he asked. I stood.

"Well, I mean, that's all you had to say?"

"Mr. Abra, I've been waiting three years to deliver on a promise I made to my dying godfather. I'm really not sure what else there is to tell you."

"But you knew him -- and your father knew my mother."

"Passingly," he admitted.

"Don't you think we should...talk about things?"

"I'd really rather not."

"Well, at least come to the show tomorrow night," I said. "I'll play the Strad."

"With all due respect, Mr. Abra, I've heard it before," he replied, and turned to leave again.

"I'll leave a ticket for you at the box office!" I called after him, but he was gone.

It wasn't exactly a great first meeting, I admit.

***

When I was a child, my mother used to take me on tours with her. First with a nanny, then with a tutor, always with my music instructors, we would pack up and travel around Europe while she sang and I watched from the footlights. When I was ten or eleven, and the word prodigy was starting to get thrown around, I'd sometimes perform with her. I saw all the big cities of Europe as they recovered from the Great War. I spoke German fluently, French passingly, and I knew my way around Paris before I was old enough to be allowed out into it alone.

But mostly I was raised in America, in New York, and I served in the American army in the second war. I was an American with European manners; a wealthy man whose mother had been an entertainer, not a society wife; a musician who had never starved for his art. I felt I was an outsider, a man who seemed everything he wasn't.

And now I was the son of an Englishman, not the only father I had known, who died when I was young. The great Englishman, Sherlock Holmes. The letter was brief; nothing more than an acknowledgement of paternity, and an explanation that it was dangerous for it to be known, and besides my mother hadn't wished me to know until she was dead.

People will tell you that I played the Strad for the first time at dinner that night. They'll tell you they were there, but if everyone who said they were there was actually there, I'd have been playing to a pretty packed house. Besides, I hadn't had time to restring or tune the Strad, or practice on it at all.

But I suppose the legend doesn't hurt.

The first time I played it in front of an audience was the following night, the second concert. I'd spent the day rehearsing on it, and it was a wonderful instrument, but until that evening I didn't know how wonderful.

* * *

_I never had anywhere I was going with this one; I just thought the idea of Rory's "Roman" past influencing him was cool. (Amy/Rory)_

Rory talks in his sleep sometimes.

He never used to do that, before, she's pretty sure anyway. Before the Doctor, before the end of the universe. They've been shagging since they were teenagers, and she never remembered him talking in his sleep before. Maybe she's a lighter sleeper now.

At first Amy thought it was nonsense babble, but it's not. She's been able to pick out a few words, enough to know he's making sense -- just not in English.

Rory talks in his sleep. In _Latin._

It shouldn't even be in Latin. They're inside the TARDIS most nights, so even if he is speaking Latin she should hear English. She wonders if he actually is speaking Latin all the time and she just hears English, but surely if that were the case she wouldn't hear Latin when he's asleep.

This being an interdimensional time traveler is complicated stuff.

* * *

_Once upon a time I thought about writing a Nero Wolfe fanfic. One of the policies Rex Stout had about his creations was that they kept up with the times but didn't age, so if you set a Nero Wolfe fic in the modern day, they'd still be the same age and would have flawlessly adapted to things like cellular phones and eating local (which Wolfe did anyway).(No pairing.)_

Nero Wolfe likes to make an impression. That's why he keeps the big brownstone on West 35th Street in New York, and it's why he wears a suit every day even though he never leaves the big brownstone. Some people think he likes to give the impression he's eccentric, but the truth is it's not an impression. He is eccentric. He's also a genius, so he gets away with it most of the time.

I'm not a genius, but I like to make an impression too. I wear a suit every day and I do leave the brownstone, which is peculiar when you think about it because the outside world's a lot harder on Thomas Pink than the brownstone is. Still, it gets the point across, and people like to talk to a man in a suit. It's also why I get a haircut every week and drink a lot of milk, because I hear it's good for you.

Wolfe buys his milk, along with butter, cheese, eggs, and the occasional chicken, from a little place upstate that's certified organic and I think they give the cows names or something. Maybe it makes the cows happy. I'm a city dweller, so I couldn't tell you. They deliver every Thursday. You might think this is an irrelevant detail, but you don't know the story and I do, so you'll just have to trust me.

Thursday's also my night to go out, because after a long and thorough study of the habits of New York's criminal element I've discovered that almost nobody ever gets murdered on a Friday morning. Premeditators like to do it on a Saturday when the body won't be discovered for a few days, and impulsive types usually lose it over something that happened on a weekend. 

All of this is leading up to the fact that there I sat on the Thursday in question, a little past nine at night, watching Fritz dress birds for what he calls _frite du polle rustique_ and I call southern fried chicken. I was not in a suit, because during the day my life, my soul, my smartphone, and my time belong to Nero Wolfe, but after dinner concludes around eight in the evening on Thursday nights, Archie Goodwin is a free man. Besides, nobody wears a suit to go clubbing.


	2. Suits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't actually seen the latest season of Suits, so these are not influenced by anything past about mid-S2.

_This was never really going anywhere; I just thought it would be fun to write Harvey's Sexual History for some reason. (Mike/Harvey, Harvey/OMC)_

Harvey discovered boys while he was at Harvard, at which point he became part of a long and honourable tradition of "guys who discovered boys at Harvard".

Technically he didn't _discover_ he was bi, really, so much as he was _kidnapped_ into the revelation by a second-year student who grabbed him in the law library one night, yanked him into the men's room, locked the door, and went down on him.

"It's Harvey, right?" the second-year student (Harvey can't remember his name) asked, right before undoing his fly.

"Yeah -- _yeah_ ," Harvey breathed, in a mixture of arousal and mild panic. When it was done he shyly offered a hand job in return, which the judges awarded a 9.8; would have been perfect ten but he cut himself some slack for post-orgasmic haze.

Harvey Specter is, after all, nothing if not a gentleman in bed (or bathroom).

In the days that followed, he discovered there were men _everywhere_ , which distracted him from pre-exam nerves and helped him score third in the class cumulatively in his first semester. Jessica yelled at him for not scoring higher, but Harvey took it with aplomb; it wasn't the first time she'd yelled at him and would not by far be the last.

It helped that the second year who'd abducted him into the law library bathroom and an entirely new sexual orientation also had a tendency to kiss and tell, because finding guys with which to experiment would otherwise have required a lot more tact and discretion. As it was, Harvey found himself invited to all kinds of interesting post-term parties, and for the next few months he got cruised in the law library stacks more often than he cared to recount, which was startling if gratifying.

He didn't always put out, of course. Nobody wants to be the slut of Harvard Law. But a few escalating encounters here and there, with both genders, led to his having a certain cachet. One didn't sleep with Harvey Specter; one _achieved_ him. It was a lesson he easily went on to apply to his professional life.

His professional life, which as Senior Partner included an associate of his very own.

Of course, Mike Ross was the prettiest and smartest of all the associates, so it was only right that he should be Harvey's.

* * *

_This was based on[a prompt someone linked me to](http://suitsmeme.livejournal.com/3323.html?thread=3506427#t3506427), but as I never got to the porn, I never posted it. (Mike/Harvey)_

The bar was wood, and slick from age and polish. The glass tumbler slid along it easily, silently, and the two fingers of scotch in it barely sloshed as it came to a stop.

Mike, who'd been leaning back on the bar exchanging lazy insults with Kyle, looked up when it halted at his elbow, barely nudging the fabric of his suit.

"Speedbump," Kyle snorted into his highball.

"Hey," Mike called, leaning back a little further to catch the bartender's eye. "Who's this for?"

"You, blue-eyes," the bartender called back, and winked at him.

Mike shook his head. "I thought this was a cash bar. I'm not carrying."

"What are your student loans _like?_ " Kyle asked. "I hear you still live in a roach motel."

"Hey, when Mommy and Daddy stop paying your rent, hit me back," Mike told him, annoyed, and then turned back to the bartender, offering to slide the drink back. "Sorry, man."

"On the house," the bartender said, ignoring two or three handwaves for drinks as he ambled over. He looked like he was about Mike's age, maybe a little younger; short dark hair, brown eyes, a tattoo of some kind barely peeking out from under the starched white collar of his uniform. "You're with the lawyers, right? All you guys drink scotch like it's some kind of badge of honor. Don't worry, it's top shelf," he added. "Your pals are bringing in enough to spot you."

"Hey, thanks," Mike answered, lifting to sip it. It was smooth -- not quite as smooth as Harvey's, on the rare occasion Harvey had deemed him acceptable enough to share a drink, but it went down nice, plus it gave him something to do with his hands.

Pearson Hardman and a couple of other firms, most notably Bloch, Smith, and Young (Mike didn't make the Crosby, Stills, and Nash jokes he wanted to) had rented the bar for the evening on the premise that, the fiscal year closing, they'd all probably be shedding a few associates soon, and also might be looking to scoop up some bargains. It was a mercenary form of networking, one Mike didn't much enjoy, especially since the partners from every firm seemed to have formed an exclusionary grownup table, claiming one end of the bar and the few booths for themselves and effectively throwing up a wall against the Associates.

He was supposed to be making small talk with associates from other firms, men and women he'd someday face off against, perhaps -- all part of Harvey's "getting it". But he'd already schmoozed a few and after them even Kyle was a welcome break.

"Taking the rough trade home?" Kyle asked, as the bartender walked off.

"Jealous?" Mike grinned, sipping again.

"Bet you fifty bucks I can land a partner tonight," Kyle said, scanning the partners at the other end of the room.

"You're a creep, Kyle."

"So you're in?"

"No," Mike said, and turned back to the bar.

"Loser," Kyle muttered. Mike figured Kyle would spend Monday telling everyone he owed Kyle fifty bucks, but it was worth it to make him go away. He finished his drink and set it down, startling when it was swept away almost immediately. The bartender who'd called him 'blue eyes' winked, leaning on the other side of the bar.

"Why were you making time with that asshole?" he asked.

"I work with him. I have to pretend I don't want him dead," Mike replied.

"Lawyers." The bartender shook his head. "I'm Rich, by the way."

"Mike," Mike answered, shaking the offered hand.

"Well, Mike, you could make time with me," Rich said, grinning. "Smile pretty and I'll pour you another scotch."

Mike blinked at him.

"This is the part where you ask me what time I get off," Rich added helpfully.

"Oh -- hey, no, that's cool and all, but I'm not like that," Mike said.

"Really?" Rich asked, grinning.

"No, I mean -- I don't really...pick people up," Mike stammered.

"Mmhm. But you are _like that?_ "

"I, uh." Mike stared, unused to such direct seduction.

"That's what I thought. Catch you in a while, Mike," Rich said, and went to fill a drink order down at the partners' end of the bar. Mike saw Harvey glance his way, then drift back into a conversation with someone.

He pushed off from the bar, intending to find Howard and either mock him for drinking cosmopolitans or save him from eternal wallflowerhood. He was halfway there when a waitress zipped past, placed a drink in his hand, and said "From Rich," with a lewd smile. Mike stared at the drink, perplexed.

"Who's Rich?" Rachel asked, appearing with possibly supernatural timing next to him. "New beau? I didn't know you swung that way."

"The bartender," Mike said. "He told me to ask him what time he gets off."

"Hmm. Usually the answer is 'half past nice try', but if he set you up, maybe you're going to get lucky," she said. She glanced around. "At least someone is."

"You're outnumbered by men by like...three to one," Mike pointed out.

"Half of whom I work with, the other half of whom have already tried to see down my shirt," Rachel said. Mike studied it; he could see how it might pose a challenge to lesser men. "Ugh, now you're doing it."

"No! I was just -- " he broke off as she swept away. He sighed and looked around for Howard, but Howard had already gone back to the bar, and Mike didn't want to actually encourage Rich.

Great. Ditched by the wallflower. Nice night.

He wished Harvey wasn't over there chatting and laughing with the partners. He got why it was that way, of course he understood, but half the point of working for Pearson Hardman was getting to work with Harvey, getting to learn from him, and Harvey was a master of social situations like this. He could be picking up pointers by the shovelful.

He nursed the second drink, half to keep his wits about him and half to prevent Rich from sending him another. It worked for a while, long enough for Mike to meet-and-greet with a few more associates from other firms, who moaned about the Harvard Clubhouse and seemed interested in hearing about the cases he'd worked. Apparently Pearson Hardman was progressive, by some standards; some of the associates from the other firms had been out of law school for a year and still hadn't handled a single case themselves.

He found himself back at the bar to drop off his glass, but Rich spotted him and before Mike could stop him, another was sitting on the bar.

"I saw you get shot down by the lady lawyer," Rich said. "Guess her gaydar's not broken."

"Look, this is flattering and all, I guess? So...thank you? But no thanks," Mike said, pushing the drink back at him. Rich eyed him, and Mike pushed away through the crowd, heading for the narrow hallway that led to the bathrooms. He'd take a moment, dig some cash out of his wallet, and slip out quietly, catch a cab home. At this rate, nobody would notice -- certainly not Harvey. As he edged his way past the partners, he heard Harvey laugh at some joke, and the sound of his voice in reply if not the actual words.

He didn't see Rich flip up the end of the bar to follow him, but he became aware someone else was coming down the hallway as he reached the men's room door; when he put an arm out to open it, he felt a hand on his elbow. He turned, startled.

"Go ahead," Rich said, nodding at the door. "My relief's on, we can be quick."

Mike let go of the knob. "Go on ahead."

"Aw, c'mon. Look, I'm not going to out you to those assholes, if that's what you're worried about," Rich said.

"I'm not -- "

"Then come on. If not now, when, you know?" Rich said. "Unless you want to wait. I bet you have a sweet place."

"Hey, I didn't mean to give you any mixed signals, but if I did, I'm sorry," Mike said. "It's nothing personal, but I don't want to get off with you in the men's room of the bar, okay? I'm not interested. End of story."

Rich's fingers snapped around his wrist and Mike, after a startled second, said "For real?"

"Are you a virgin?" Rich asked earnestly.

"Am I -- okay, you know what?" Mike said, and clearly he'd gone insane, because the next words out of his mouth sounded crazy even to him. He half-turned, wrist still in Rich's grasp, and pointed to Harvey, barely visible down the hallway. "See that guy? That's my _boyfriend_. I'm _taken_."

Rich let him go as he craned his neck to study Harvey. "Wow. Sugar daddy? He's gorgeous. I'm totally okay with a threesome, you know," he added, looking back at Mike, who turned to stare at him incredulously. "It can be a one-time thing."

"At this point I'd rather fuck the douchebag you saw me with earlier," Mike said. "Seriously, back off."

"Aw, you don't mean that. I like shy boys," Rich said.

Mike was opening his mouth to reply when he felt a sudden warm weight on the back of his neck, and heard a voice say, "Michael." He looked around to see Harvey standing there, watching Rich. "Problem here?"

Mike could feel Harvey's thumb working down the side of his neck, rubbing small circles into the muscle. Visible to Rich, and clearly for his benefit.

"Just making small talk," Rich said, and there was a smile on his face, but underneath he had a sudden air of nervousness.

"I don't think we've been introduced," Harvey said, maintaining his gentle grip on Mike's neck. "Harvey Specter. I'm one of the people paying your salary tonight. You are tending bar, right? I rarely forget a face," he added, and he smiled small and dangerous. "

"Mike and I were just talking...possibilities," Rich said, the slouch of his body unmistakable. Mike swallowed hard.

"Really?" Harvey glanced at Mike. "You didn't tell him I'm the jealous type?"

Mike just stared at him.

"Let me put this in perspective," Harvey said, turning back to Rich. "This? Belongs to me. And if that isn't enough incentive to run you off, here's a little lesson in harassment law for you: if you come up on my boyfriend again, I can sue you for your minimal net worth and, more importantly, I can sue your employers, because it's taking place on company property. In fact, you already assaulted him when you grabbed him just now. I should let them know that..." he trailed off, looking around as if he might spot the owner of the bar.

"Hey, he didn't say it was like that," Rich said, holding up his hands.

"Oh, he didn't," Harvey repeated darkly. "Get your ass back behind the bar. Mike, it's time to go."

He tugged gently on Mike's neck, turning him and shifting his hand to the small of Mike's back as they walked away. Mike didn't see where Rich went, but he definitely didn't follow them.

"Thank you," Mike said, as they pushed through the crowd.

"I enjoyed that," Harvey answered. "I so rarely get to play the possessive asshole."

"You're pretty good at it." Mike began drifting towards the door. "I'm gonna go. I appreciate the save."

"Oh, we're not done yet," Harvey replied, hand still on his back, following him. "He sees you leave without me, God knows what he'd do."

"But the partners -- "

"I told 'em I was rescuing my associate. Normally that'd be career suicide, but in a situation like this it just looks like I'm a conscientious shepherd, and it means I don't have to spend another hour listening to Young talk about his golf game. Relax, I'm not going to make you pay for the cab."

They emerged from the bar into the cool New York evening, passing a couple of associates smoking nearby. Harvey, because he was Harvey, held out a hand and a cab just _appeared_. Mike climbed inside, expecting Harvey to close the door, but instead Harvey shoved him over and climbed in after.

"I was doing fine," Mike said, as Harvey gave the driver his address. "I could have handled it."

"Which is exactly why I didn't show up sooner. Though when he suggested a threesome I just about choked on my drink."

"You were listening?" Mike gaped.

"Of course I was listening. I was eight feet away. You think I don't know everything you do?" Harvey asked. "I've been tracking you all night."

"Why?"

Harvey shrugged, looking out the window. "Comes with the job."

"You didn't think you could have stepped in a little sooner?"

"Like you said, you were doing fine." Harvey turned to look at him. "You think that's the last time someone's going to make a pass at you at one of these things? You're playing in the major leagues now, Mike. All the little triple-As see your suit, they see the way you walk, they see you out with a bunch of lawyers, they think one of two things: great fuck, or rich daddy. If I stepped in every time someone bought you a drink, you'd never learn how to deal with it."

"But you did step in," Mike said.

"If I didn't step in when someone wouldn't take no for an answer, I'd be kind of a dickhead," Harvey told him. "Besides, you brought me into it. _That's my boyfriend_ ," he repeated, but it wasn't as mocking as Mike would have expected. "Clear SOS. Before that, I was just enjoying watching your giant brain try to figure out how to get the guy to back off."

"What would you have done?" Mike asked.

"I would have thanked him for that third drink, told him I'd meet him out front once he got off shift, and made a point to be somewhere else once I knew when that was," Harvey said. "Some people aren't interested in listening. Most people will accept the direct approach you tried first." He looked thoughtful. "Though if he hadn't been such a massive asshole, I probably wouldn't have said no, in your shoes."

"Excuse me?" Mike said.

Harvey shrugged. "He was young, attractive, looked bendy, sounded like he wouldn't mind being kicked out in the morning."

"I uh. Didn't know you -- "

Harvey rolled his eyes. "Do I seem like someone who lets gender get in the way of a good time?"

"No..." Mike said, slowly.

"Anyway, it's not like you don't do a once-over, once in a while," Harvey said, leaning back, utterly relaxed. "I've seen you check my ass out."

"I was looking at the cut of your suit!"

"Uh-huh." Harvey seemed to consider him for a moment, and Mike felt a blush creeping up his neck. "Listen, I'm not the kind of guy to ask for repayment for being a decent person or looking after my responsibilities. What I did back there had no ulterior motive. But if you're interested in not making a total liar out of both of us or finding out just how possessive I can be, come up with me. Promise I can be better than that punk could dream of."

Mike's jaw dropped. Harvey gave him a slight smile.

"No pressure. Unlike some people, I don't take rejection as a personal affront."

The cab pulled to a stop. Harvey reached for his wallet.

"In or out?" he asked. "No wrong answer, Mike."

Mike gave him a suspicious look. "You didn't set this all up, did you?"

Harvey snorted. "If I wanted to seduce you that badly, you think I'd need to bribe a bartender to help?"

"Are you paying or what?" the cabbie asked.

"Keep your meter running and keep quiet," Harvey replied.

"Whatever, man."

Mike heard himself say _In,_ before he really thought about it. Like anyone was going to say no with Harvey's intense, dark-eyed stare focused on them.

Harvey smiled, handed the driver a bill, told him to keep the change, and got out of the cab. Mike climbed out feeling almost numb, almost drunk, and felt Harvey's hand in the small of his back again, a point of warmth spreading outward.

"This way," Harvey said in his ear, guiding him into an opening elevator. Mike had been in Harvey's building before, but he hadn't been paying much attention at the time. Now, as the elevator sped upwards, the silence seemed to stretch out and wrap around them, comfortable but anticipatory. When the doors opened, Harvey pushed him gently into the hall, never losing that one point of contact even as he unlocked the front door.

Inside, however, he let Mike go with a suggestive drag of his fingers, walking into a spacious kitchen. Mike drifted past him towards the windows, looking out.

"Pour you a drink?" Harvey asked.

"You have a patio," Mike said. "On the..."

"Fifty-third floor," Harvey offered. "Comes standard. Technically it's a terrace."

Mike pushed open the door and stepped out onto it, expecting a blast of cold wind that never materialized. The terrace was sheltered on both sides, forming a still, quiet little pocket, hundreds of feet over Manhattan.

He heard Harvey follow him out, heard the clink of glasses being set on a table and then a soft clicking noise. He glanced over to see Harvey turning a small metal dial on what looked like a camping lantern on steroids, and suddenly warmth began to flood the terrace. Harvey nodded, satisfied, and then picked up one of the drinks, offering it to Mike. He sipped, feeling awkward, unsure what to do now. Harvey looked amused and loosened his tie, popping the top button of his shirt open.

"You said it comes with the job," Mike said, as Harvey slid the tie off and set it down on the table next to his drink. "What did you mean?"

Harvey rolled his shoulders, shrugging out of his jacket and hanging that on the back of a soft-looking chair. "You're my responsibility. It's my job to ensure you make it to partner without any unnecessary dents or scratches. I get that I suck at it, but it's my first try at this side of the mentorship equation. If it's any consolation, I'm trying hard."

"And that's why you stepped in."

Harvey settled into the chair, slouched, legs spread almost obscenely wide. "That, and I don't like people touching my stuff."

"And I'm your stuff?"

"You can be, if you stop hiding behind the heater." Harvey began unbuttoning his vest.

* * *

_This was an old Hurt/Comfort I never finished. (Mike/Harvey implied.)_

As with all wise cyclists, especially those in New York, Mike is prepared for the inevitable: he will be hit by a car.

It's not an option. It will happen. It might be nothing more than doorhandling, or being forced into a curb. It might involve going up on the hood of a car, or every cyclist's nightmare: aggressive bus drivers.

He carries a small first-aid kit in his messenger bag with antiseptic wipes, bandages, and medical tape, which is also useful for patching rips if he goes off the bike and his clothing gets torn. Harvey will _kill him_ if Mike ever shows up to work with pants patched by medical tape, but Mike calculates his odds of sneaking in and stealing a pair of Harvey's spare pants from his office are pretty good, especially if Donna is aiding and abetting. Which she will if Mike shows her bloody knees and scraped palms, because Donna is a goddess but not immune to pathos.

More importantly, in his wallet, there's a piece of paper. It's in case his phone gets trashed when he gets hit. It lists his name, his address, Gram's name and phone number, and his emergency contacts. Until a few months ago that was Trevor and Jenny; Jenny's still on there, but now her name is listed below Harvey's, with Donna's office number and Harvey's cell number. He doesn't like the piece of paper, because it assumes the worst, but he also finds it reassuring.

And he's sort of proud; below his blood type, his doctor's name, and NO KNOWN ALLERGIES there's a line that says _I work for Pearson Hardman Law Firm._ It practically screams _I am not a failure anymore._

So when he gets hit, the last thing that flashes through his mind is how glad he is he updated that piece of paper when Trevor turned out to be a douchebag, and how pissed Harvey is going to be when that phone call comes through.

***

"Mike, don't make me come to your apartment," Harvey says into Mike's voicemail, and leaves the rest unsaid.

It's the fourth voicemail he's left that morning -- seven am, seven-twenty, eight-fourteen, and now at eight-thirty -- and Harvey is seriously pissed off. He can't actually figure out how to punish Mike for being late in any way that Mike will find meaningful and yet won't open Harvey to assault charges, but if Mike doesn't get here by nine he's going to start devoting serious thought to the issue. He has considered setting up a looped text message to hit Mike's phone every two minutes, but technically that's e-harassment.

Eight forty-two. Harvey picks up his phone and is about to dial when Donna appears in his doorway, looking pale.

"What?" he asks, and an uncomfortable amount of worry floods him right before Donna says:

"Mike's in the hospital."

" _What?_ " Harvey asks, thinking guiltily of Voicemail #3, which said "I hope you're in the hospital because otherwise I'll put you there."

"They just called. He was knocked off his bike this morning -- "

"Which hospital?" Harvey asks. Donna looks genuinely shaken.

"St. Mark's."

"Clear my morning," Harvey says, already moving. "Once you're done rescheduling, pack up the relevant files -- you know which ones I need?" he asks, and she nods. "Pack them up and take a cab to the hospital. Use my expense card," he adds, handing it to her. "Call me when you get there and I'll tell you where to go. Wait, before you do that, email Louis and tell him Mike won't be in today. You can copy anyone you think is relevant."

Donna nods, already opening his calendar to begin rearranging his schedule.

"And call his grandmother!" Harvey adds over his shoulder, already on his way to the elevators.

***

The news spreads outwards: Donna emails Louis and copies Rachel. Rachel comes to talk with her in low, worried voices as Donna packs up Harvey's files; she tells the paralegals, who pass word to the admins and associates, who talk among themselves and mention it to the partners that supervise them. Slowly it passes through the company. One of the associates is in the hospital, Harvey Specter's associate is in the hospital, Mike's in the hospital. Louis rides the associates so hard they don't have time to gossip and speculate; that's his job, and if he's worried about Mike or about Harvey because of Mike, well, herding all these cats keeps him occupied.

But while the news spreads, Mike is lying unconscious in intensive care. Harvey is working his way through the hospital, following Mike's paper trail from emergency to triage to treatment to ICU. Donna is in a cab, on her second call of the day to Mike's grandmother, who is sick with worry and so, so grateful for the nice young woman who works with Mike and who promises to tell her as soon as she knows anything, and should she come to St. Mark's, does Donna think?

Donna knows that Mike's Gram is not in the best of health, so she makes the executive decision and says, "No, let's see how he is first -- might just be bumps and bruises, you know?" even though if it were, Mike would have called himself. And as she says it, and promises to call back and hangs up, Harvey is standing in the doorway to Mike's room, speaking with the doctor handling Mike's case, arranging for the room to be 'converted' to a private care room so that there will be no roommates here, no other broken bodies wheeled in to lie next to Mike's.

"Are you his partner, sir?" the doctor asks. Harvey quickly runs down the list of perks being Mike's boyfriend might get him, in a medico-legal sense, and finds no great advantage to lying.

"No," he says. "I'm his boss."

"Well, he must trust you like hell," the doctor says, offering Harvey a slip of paper. It's torn printer paper, folded in quarters, and one sentence, underlined in red, stands out:

_In the event I am incapacitated and no family members are available, Harvey Specter is authorized to make medical decisions on my behalf._

"His grandmother's his next of kin," Harvey says. "My secretary's in contact with her. We'll route all decisions through her if possible." He pauses. "Do you know what happened?"

"No," the man says, and nods to a cop standing down the hallway. "But she does."

Donna, breathless, appears at his elbow from the other direction, a file box under one arm.

"I owe you something shiny and expensive," Harvey says. "Get the scoop -- tell her anything she needs to know," he orders the doctor. "She's -- "

"Mike's girlfriend," Donna says smoothly. The doctor eyes her, visibly calculating their age difference. "Problem?"

"Problem?" Harvey repeats. The doctor shakes his head. "Good. I'm going to find out what happened..." he trails off, because the cop down the hall is holding something, dangling by a strap from her hands. Mike's bike helmet.

It's split in half.

***

Mike, bless his safety-conscious uptight little soul, was doing everything right. He was in a bike lane, for Christ's sake, and some overeager tourist in a rental car wanted to turn and didn't want to wait. The car jumped out, Mike swerved, the driver didn't notice, and Mike went up on the hood, smashing his head against the metal, where his helmet cracked. The tourist braked, Mike tumbled off, slamming his head again on the fender (sans helmet) and breaking his leg when he landed.

And then the tourist backed up, pulled into traffic, and drove away.

But they know what happened, because along with a cabdriver who stopped to call for help, there's a young man with the cop, also a tourist, not the guy who hit Mike. The man looks shaken and furious, and he shoves a flip camera into Harvey's hands.

 _It's on tape._ Clear as day, complete with the plate number and rental car sticker, complete with the sickening crunch of Mike's body against steel.

"I mean what a prick!" the young man is practically yelling, apparently grateful that someone other than the stone-faced cop is now around for him to vent on.

"Will he be fine?" the cabdriver asks. There's genuine concern in his voice. "May I go? You have my..." he points to the information in the cop's notebook. "I don't want to be rude, but I have a living to make..." off the cop's nod, he looks between her and Harvey. "Will he be fine?" he repeats. "Will you call and tell me?"

"We already have an alert out for the car, and we're contacting the rental company," the cop is saying.

"Jesus Christ, you tell him for me he's a dickhead!" the young man insists.

Harvey spares a moment to wonder if Mike Ross actually has some kind of guardian angel. The kid charms people like nobody he's ever met, even unconscious, which is just weird, because Mike's frankly not that socially adept.

"Thank you," he says to the cop, and then "I'll call you," to the cabdriver, and then to the young man with the flip camera, "I appreciate you turning this over. Make sure you get a receipt and a business card from the police officer."

After that, things calm down. He gets the case number from the cop and gives her his business card, mentioning casually that he's Mike's attorney. When he gets back to Mike's room, he and Donna confer in low voices, exchanging information until they both know everything.

"Are you going to stay here?" Donna asks. Harvey tilts his head. "Someone should stay here, so if you're not, I will, but if you are, I'll handle the office."

"Go. I'll stay. How's his grandmother?"

"They're arranging transportation for her to come see him, but not until this afternoon. They put her on some anti-anxiety medication, I think," Donna says. She looks almost...distracted.

"What is it?" Harvey asks quietly. Donna glances at Mike.

"Should I clear your afternoon?" she asks.

Harvey mentally scrolls down the list of meetings, updates, court dates, interviews, depositions, networking events, and finds nothing that can't wait a day (well, nothing _can_ wait a day but everything's going to have to, and nobody will die or lose millions of dollars).

"Do that," he says.

***

The day stretches long. Harvey works on what he can, glad of some occupation with the ubiquitous pastel-green Pearson Hardman file folders. Most of the casework has Mike's notes scrawled in the margins. He steps outside a few times to make phone calls, never longer than a minute or two, and charms a hot nurse (what? he's worried, not dead) into bringing him a hospital-issue lunch, which he eats without paying attention, buried in a case.

He's coming back from a phone call with Jessica to discuss some of the finer points of a buyout contract when he sees a woman sitting in a chair -- no, a wheelchair -- next to Mike's bed. Ah, this is the grandmother. He doesn't know her name. She's petting Mike's arm, careful of the IV in his wrist, talking softly.

"You're gonna be just fine, sweetheart, I'm not mad," she's saying softly.

He wonders -- half his mind turning over whether to stay or discreetly fade back into the hall -- whether she was angry with Mike's parents, when they were killed. That makes sense. It occurs to him for the first time that Mike might have been angry too, and that his grandmother wants him to know this won't be a rerun.

Before he can process this, she looks up.

"Can I help you with something?" she asks, curious.

"You must be Mike's grandmother," he says.

"And I think you're the infamous Harvey," she replies. He raises his eyebrows. "The one who works my poor grandson to -- "

They both wince. _To death._

"Guilty," he says.

"Well, come in. I thought you might be back," she tells him, waving a hand at the legal briefs spread out over the little tray next to Mike's bed. Her hand grips Mike's, but it's shaking, and he can see the slight glassiness in her eyes -- that'd be the Xanax, or whatever they put her on to stop her from having the kind of freakout anyone would have when their only grandson is unconscious in a hospital.

"I don't know how much Donna told you," he says, pulling a chair up next to hers. "But he'll be fine. There's no evidence of intercranial bleeding, no skull fracture."

"Just a very nasty knock to the head," she murmurs, still petting Mike's arm. "He took a few of those learning to ride his bicycle. Was he wearing his helmet?"

Harvey nods. "Probably what saved his life."

"Along with that thick skull of his," she says, and starts to cry.

Harvey is not mentally prepared for a weeping octogenarian, but he's not a hundred percent inexperienced. He offers her a handkerchief and takes one clammy hand in his, because that is what decent people do. He's very good at pretending to be decent in public.

"He's my baby," she says, weeping. Harvey rubs her palm with his thumb, while wondering when the last time she had a sedative was.

He doesn't reassure her, or even try to soothe her. That's not what she wants. She knows, has been told, that Mike will be fine; him repeating it isn't going to help, so he just sits quietly until she stops crying (thank god). She sniffles and wipes her nose, tucking the handkerchief into her sleeve -- his mother used to do that.

"He talks about you," she says finally, and Harvey slowly lets go of her hand. She smiles damply at him. "Every time he visits. If he's not pissed at you -- then he just complains. Otherwise it's all _Harvey said this_ or _Harvey did that_."

This is news to him. Of course he dominates Mike's life and rightly so, Mike is his associate, but he would have thought Mike's visits with his grandmother would be a refuge from all that.

"Sometimes he re-enacts parts," she adds, and her smile warms a little. "I don't think he quite has his impression of you down yet."

"Yeah, his Stallone sucks too," Harvey remarks.

***

They don't let her stay very long, which in some ways is a relief for both of them, and a few hours later they try to kick Harvey out too. At some point tonight he will go home, go to bed, get up and shower and handle tomorrow, but when they try to punt him at five he reminds them he's a lawyer, Mike's lawyer, a very important lawyer, someone who could easily find a reason to sue the hospital, and they back right down. Donna brings him a carry-out dinner from Coste, the hot new eatery of the moment, and after he's eaten and put the files in order for tomorrow he just goes and sits with Mike for a bit.

This is all incredibly stupid, there's no point to him being here. Mike, if -- when -- he wakes up, is going to use this in his neverending battle to convince Harvey that caring is a positive act. Tomorrow he has to go to work, he should have gone back to work today.

But he just keeps sitting there, for some reason.

He's contemplating getting up and leaving for the third time, around nine o'clock, when there's a grunt from the bed, and Mike opens one hazy blue eye.

Harvey tilts his head, trying to figure out if Mike's in there or if it's some kind of unconscious tic.

"Trevor?" Mike asks hoarsely.

A few things happen at once. Harvey has a sick, annoyingly emotional moment where he finds the idea that Mike might have forgotten him horrifying; Mike doesn't forget anything, ever. Mike, at the same time Harvey is having his epiphany, looks frightened and worried, like he doesn't want Trevor there or maybe thinks Trevor somehow got him into this. Harvey opens his mouth to say _No, it's Harvey,_ and Mike breathes a sudden sigh of relief.

"Harvey," he says.

He should probably call a doctor or something. Instead he just stares at Mike, who is still trying to focus with his one good eye.

"Car?" Mike offers.

"Tourist," Harvey confirms.

"Fucker," Mike pronounces. His eye slides shut again and then snaps open. "Am I dying?"

"No," Harvey says. He holds up a finger and Mike follows it as he moves it, so he figures the kid is probably conscious enough to comprehend what he's saying. "You hit your head twice, broke your leg. Your bike's totaled. Also you made your grandmother cry."

"Ohhhhh Graaaaam," Mike groans, panic evident.

"She's fine. She knows what happened. Soon as we're done here I'll call her."

Mike's eye is blinking furiously. "It hurts."

"Push through. You'll live."

"It really hurts, Harvey," and there's a desperation in Mike's tone, in the way he uses Harvey's name, that makes him uncomfortable, unsettled.

"I'll get a doctor," he says.

He ends up getting about four, without meaning to, and they fumble around Mike's bed doing things to his associate that can't possibly be comfortable. But Mike's gaining in coherence by the moment, his weird little brain whirring away like always. By the time they've left, a few with suspicious looks at Harvey, Mike is drugged up but still more intelligent than earlier.

"I don't remember," he says, sounding frustrated. "I don't even remember getting up this morning."

"Don't let it get to you, I'm sure you'll live to enjoy Cheerios again at some point," Harvey says.

"But I don't _remember_ ," Mike says, distressed. Harvey leans over the bed, doing his best loom.

"It doesn't matter," he tells Mike, firmly.

Mike gives him the best defiant look he can, considering he looks like Mummy #3 in some horror film, head all bandaged up, face black-and-blue. "You said you'd call Gram," he accuses.

"See? Your memory is annoyingly fine as ever," Harvey says. He leans back. "I'm going to call your grandmother, then I'm going home. I'll check in tomorrow before work. Don't let them discharge you unless I'm here."

Mike's smile is goofy, gratified.

"Because we need to make sure they document your injuries," Harvey says carefully.

"You caaaaare," Mike sing-songs. Jesus, he thought it would take at least a day for this shit to set in.

"I'm going now," Harvey informs him.

"You caaaaaare, Harvey caaaaares," Mike's voice follows him out.

At the entrance, he is arrested by the sight of Mike's girlfriend, Jenna or Julie or something, arguing fiercely with a security guard. The guard is twice her size but she's clearly ready to throw a punch. Harvey watches, intrigued, as she takes off her high heels and waves them in his face.

"You see these?" she asks, furiously. "I've been wearing these for twelve hours while he lies _dying in the hospital_ and I had to turn my phone off while I was at work and I just got the call and the cabdriver who brought me here hit on me and it's been a really long day and _I want to see him!_ "

"Visiting hours are over," the guard says implacably.

Harvey could just walk out, but the last thing Mike needs is to wake up tomorrow and find the girl is in jail for assaulting someone, so he steps up.

"Oh, my God," she says, startled. "Mr. Specter."

"I'll handle this," Harvey says, deftly pulling her away from the guard and putting himself between them, and if he takes a high-heel upside the head for this there will be consequences. "Jenna."

"Jenny," she growls.

"Jenny," he repeats. "I just saw Mike, he's not dying."

"I want to see him!"

"That's not going to happen tonight."

"Fuck you!" she spits.

"He's asleep. He's fine. I spoke with him. And the last thing he needs is to be woken up," he continues, subtly backing her towards the door. "The best thing you can do for him right now is let him rest. So what I'm going to do is have my car service take you home, and on the way there I'll tell you what I know."

"But he's -- "

"Not. Dying," Harvey repeats. "And tomorrow at eight in the morning you can see him. Right now, we're leaving, okay?"

She's clearly still angry, but at least she puts the damn shoes back on and lets him herd her into a waiting car. He feels weary, and very old, and also like he's gone through this five or six times already, but they sit in the car and he explains things to her while Ray takes her home. Once they've left her at her door, he calls Mike's Gram's nursing home and leaves a message to be given to her in the morning.

His apartment is peaceful, dark, soothing, all blue light and blond wood. He sets his alarm, has a few mouthfuls of scotch, and sinks gratefully into his bed.

***

By the time Harvey is out of the shower the next morning, he has a dozen messages:

The police want to inform him that they've apprehended the man who hit Mike, and they're arraigning him on charges of vehicular assault, fleeing the scene, and reckless driving.

Jenny calls to ream him out for not helping her get in to see Mike.

Jessica wants to know what Mike's status is because Harvey really can't miss tomorrow, they need him there.

Jenny is sorry she called earlier.

Mike's Gram is thrilled he's awake, glad Harvey called her, looking forward to seeing him again that afternoon.

Donna is bringing breakfast to the hospital and will meet him there.

Jenny wants to know if Harvey will represent Mike when they sue the shit out of this guy.

The police want to know if Harvey is representing one Jenny Griffin, who wants the record of the incident.

The hospital wants to assure him that Mike is continuing to do well.

Jessica seriously needs to know if Harvey will be in, call her now.

Louis wants an update on Mike and whether he thinks Mike will be in today.

"When did I become his point man?" Harvey wonders aloud.

***

When he arrives at the hospital, having called Jessica to assure her he will be there and texted Louis to stop being a prick, Donna and Jenny are sitting with Mike, eating breakfast. Jenny looks one hundred percent less insane and vaguely contrite that she spent the whole night calling him, but Harvey gets it; he's had a few rough nights over the years and done things he shouldn't have, so if they could ignore it that would be fine by him. He tries to convey this to her by not responding much when she talks to him, which seems to work.

Mike is loopy, only about half there, but he's with-it enough to bring up the fact that he's getting discharged that evening, which sparks a lively if somewhat baffling debate.

"I thought I'd come home with you," Jenny says. "You know, look after you for a few days."

"Do the doctors want that?" Donna asks.

"I want it," Jenny says firmly.

"Look, my place is claustrophobic enough," Mike mumbles.

"You can come to my place."

"Maybe."

"Why maybe?"

Then there are significant looks exchanged. The mating habits of young idiots. Donna looks just as fascinated as Harvey.

"Mike, I'm not going to let you roam around your apartment alone with a head wound," Jenny says.

"No, but like...you need to work," Mike says.

"I'll take some time off," Jenny says, but she sounds uncertain. Harvey doesn't even know what she does but he suspects it's not the kind of job where you get FMLA leave.

"I'll be okay," Mike insists.

"What about a home medical aid?" Harvey offers.

All three of them look at him like he's the crazy one here.

"Insurance covers it," he says lamely.

"The point is to have someone who _cares_ about him looking after him," Jenny says. Mike's eyes go kind of unfocused for a second.

"Harvey," Donna says delicately, into the weird silence that follows, "what about your place?"

"What?" Harvey asks, blindsided.

"You have guestroom, you have a maid, there's an in-house restaurant that can send food up, and the guy who lives below you is a neurosurgeon," Donna continues brightly.

"I don't think -- "

"Plus you have that big flat-screen," Donna interrupts.

"I'm fine in my place," Mike protests feebly.

"But she's -- " Harvey begins, because surely a girlfriend is better than him when it comes to crap like this and he'll pay her, goddammit, if he has to, but Donna coughs sharply and both Mike and Jenny look seriously awkward.

"Great, I'll set it up," Donna says. "Harvey, Jessica wants you in her office by nine."

"I should go too," Jenny says reluctantly, rising and kissing Mike on the cheek.

"I'm not kissing you," Harvey informs him, and Mike gives him a wave as he and Donna leave too.

"You would never survive without me," Donna says, once they're on their way to the office.

"What? You just shoved a coma patient on me," Harvey complains. "Why can't his little girlfriend do it?"

"Because she's not his little girlfriend, Mr. Oblivious."

"Since when is she not his girlfriend?"

"Since they broke up two months ago."

Harvey vaguely recalls Mike being unusually cranky, two months ago, but sometimes Mike's just that way. He didn't really think much about it.

"What am I supposed to do with him?" he tries.

"Take him home, feed him when he looks hungry, show him where the DVDs are, and pretend you have feelings."

"That's so much work," Harvey complains.

***

Because Mike will probably be out for at least a few days and Harvey has become used to having someone at his beck and call, he stops at the bullpen after meeting with Jessica and plucks a lucky associate from obscurity to glory and loads him up with Mike's work, telling him to be familiar with all cases by noon (the boy pales, but nods). He has his own work to do, and catch-up meetings from yesterday, and he also has to stay on top of the police report, plus start prepping paperwork for Mike's civil suit, where they will take this asshat to the fucking _cleaners_.

The guy who hit Mike is some rich snowbird from Florida, which is good, because if he were young or pretty or a single mom or something Mike would probably object to Harvey ruining his life. He hit Harvey's associate with a car and then drove away; he deserves to have his life ruined. Plus, though it would be fun to bill Mike, if he takes the case pro bono it'll go towards his quota and he won't have to take some other pro bono case that Mike will get his big dumb emotions all over.

Boy Associate, Harvey discovers, is useless. He ends up sending him for coffee just to get him to shut up and stop regurgitating information Harvey already knows.

There's too much work and not enough time, which normally would just mean working until nine, but Donna buzzes him at four-thirty to remind him to pick up Mike, and when he walks out of the office she presents him with a paper bag, a backpack, and a battered gym bag.

"Jenny packed some things for him," Donna says, pointing at the gym bag. "Dinner," she adds, pointing at the paper bag. "The files you'll need tonight," and she points at the backpack.

"I want a divorce," Harvey grumbles. Donna pats his cheek, which he can't do anything about because his hands are full.

"Harvey, I'm only going to say this once," she says, smoothing his lapels. (Why all the touching?) "Mike is young, and he's in pain. I know Pearson Hardman is a culture of sadism, but try not to think of him as your associate for a little while, okay? He didn't ask for this or want it."

"Neither did I," Harvey points out.

"You're not the one in a walking cast. You are the one who will anger me if Mike suffers unduly."

Donna knows how to go for the throat.

At the hospital, Mike is sitting alone in a wheelchair in the hallway, dressed in a set of scrubs, battered messenger bag in his lap, watching the door. Harvey has a moment of -- something. It's just so pathetic. Mike's face breaks into a painful smile when he sees him.

It's just as well he had to pick Mike up, considering he has to turn in requests for Mike's medical records and make sure they took pictures of the damage. He hadn't seen Mike's ribs before, but the photos show wide mottled bruises that make Harvey suck air in through his teeth. Outside, a nurse is helping Mike into the town car.

"I'm kind of bummed it's not a real cast," Mike says, as they work their way through downtown traffic. He's studying the boot strapped to his right leg. "More convenient for showers, I guess. Nobody can sign it, though. Maybe I can get some bumper stickers to put on it, like they do on guitar cases."

Harvey ignores Mike's hopefully painkiller-induced rambling, focusing on his phone, where he is sending Donna an email promising dire punishment for getting him into this and _yes_ , he picked Mike up and he's _fine_.

When they finally reach Harvey's high-rise, the driver unloads the baggage and passes it to the doorman, who promises to send it up. Mike hisses in pain as he climbs out of the car, and against his will Harvey finds himself holding onto his arm to help him balance. He's unsteady on the boot, and it clearly hurts to move.

Despite having spent most of yesterday watching over his wayward associate, Harvey hasn't really taken in all of the injuries at once, didn't like to look at the bed Mike was lying in. Now he has a better view, and it's not pretty: there's a bruise all the way down the side of Mike's face, a bandage kind of hilariously taped to his hair where he had to have stitches in his scalp, yellow marks on his arms from disinfectant, the cast of course, and the bruising all over his ribcage that Harvey now knows without looking is there. He's a mess, a mess flopping down on Harvey's sofa in relief and carefully, stiffly leaning forward to rifle through the gym bag Jenny packed.

"Cool, DVDs," Mike murmurs, sorting through them.

"Guest room's through that way," Harvey says, nodding at the doorway to the room he usually uses as an office -- there's a bed in there, a leftover from his last apartment years ago that got shifted into the office because this place came mostly furnished. He catches Mike's look -- longing, frustration, measuring how far he'll have to walk to get there -- and comes over to the couch. Mike plucks a handful of DVDs and a worn-looking blanket out of the bag as Harvey picks it up.

It's a thoughtful gesture, the bag -- the clothing is mostly t-shirts and loose pants, easy to wear. There's a toiletries kit, a box of cookies, and a plastic bag full of tea bags and cocoa packets.

He emerges from putting it in the bedroom to find Mike has curled up in the blanket, head propped against the arm of the sofa, nose buried in the blanket's fuzz. Harvey begins unpacking the dinner Donna gave him (Italian, nice, he's been craving ravioli) and dishing it onto plates, because after all they aren't savages.

"Water or wine?" Harvey asks, pouring himself a glass of the latter.

"M'not supposed to mix booze and painkillers," Mike replies, muffled.

"Yes, but one of the pleasures of being severely incapacitated by a car is that you get to cheat a little," Harvey says.

"Water's fine," Mike replies. Then, hesitantly, "I would have been okay at my place."

"Hey, don't tell me, I agreed with you. This is by decree of Donna," Harvey says, carrying the plates into the living room and sitting down next to him on the sofa. "Was that a pathetic attempt at thanking me?"

"Yes," Mike groans, sitting up. He settles the blanket back a little and picks at the food. It looks like chewing hurts.

"What did the doctors say about work?" Harvey asks.

"They want me on my ass for a week," Mike mumbles. "I can go back in a day or two, I think."

"Not like that, you can't," Harvey says, pointing at his face. Mike frowns. "We have a reputation to maintain. I'm not going to have you parading around in front of clients looking like you got stomped in a bar fight."

Mike nods, head bowing, and Harvey's about to move onwards when he sees Mike's shoulders jerk. There's a sound like a soft sob.

"Aw, Jesus," Harvey says, because crying, seriously? 

But he grabs Mike's head and pulls him carefully over against his shoulder, because he's supposed to be emulating comfort. Mike shakes, face pressed into Harvey's shirt, one hand clutching the fabric against his chest. "The point of that was that you should probably stay on your ass for as long as the doctors tell you."

Mike nods against his shoulder, and Harvey remembers what Donna said about youth and pain.

"You'll be fine," he adds awkwardly.

"Everywhere hurts," Mike says, soft and broken. "And Gram's freaked out and they wrecked my bike -- "

"Your grandmother is a grown woman and under continuous medical care, and your bike was a cheap piece of shit anyway," Harvey says.

"It was my _bike_."

Clearly there's something deeper going on here, but Harvey has no frame of reference for this, he has no file or briefing or deposition on the emotional status of Mike Ross, so he just rubs his hair soothingly and waits until Mike stops shaking.

"I started prepping a civil suit for you," he offers, as Mike wipes his nose and sits back, looking humiliated and tired. "Believe me, when we're done with the guy who wrecked your bike, you can buy a new bike. Or a car," he adds significantly. "Like a real grown up person."

That gets him a sniffly smile. Mike turns back to his alfredo, cutting the noodles really small.

"There's panna cotta for dessert," Harvey says. "Donna ordered it. Might be easier on your jaw."

"What's panna cotta?" Mike asks.

"It's like very expensive pudding."

So they end up having panna cotta for dinner. Which is kind of fun.

Harvey's putting the dishes in the sink when he catches Mike, out of the corner of his eye, heaving himself up on the end of the couch, making a really game try at standing.

"Going somewhere?" he asks.

"Shower," Mike grunts, but he seems to be walking okay now that he's upright.

"Bathroom's through there," Harvey points. "You need supervision?"

"I hope not," Mike mutters, working his way along.

"Towels on the rack!" Harvey calls.

"Holy crap," Mike's voice drifts out. "Your bathroom is awesome."

"This was such a mistake," Harvey announces, to nobody in particular.

He can hear water running into the tub, and various splashing noises; after a while there's silence, and then a happy groan. Sounds like Mike opted for a soak instead of a shower, which Harvey can't really deny seems the more sensible course.

After about twenty minutes spent digging through the files Donna sent home with him and putting them in order, though, he starts to feel vaguely uneasy. After thirty, when there's more splashing and frustrated noises, he gives up and goes to the doorway.

"Problem?" he asks.

"I didn't think about getting out," Mike admits. "I'm good, though, I got it."

"This is why I suggested you hire an actual nurse, instead of conning your boss's admin into conning your boss into doing it," Harvey says, leaning on the doorjamb. He's not trying to look, but he can see the bruises in full now. The photographs didn't do them justice. There's also a narrow, dark purple bruise on the inside of his left leg, which looks almost like someone took a pipe to him until Harvey realizes that must be where the frame of his bike was slammed into him when the car hit him.

He watches Mike struggle for a while longer, waiting patiently, getting his renewed anger at the driver under control.

Mike looks up at him and rolls his eyes. "Please, Mr. Specter, will you help me out of the bathtub?"

"I should be billing your naked ass," Harvey sighs, but he strips off his shirt so it won't get wet and lets Mike wrap a stiff arm around his shoulders, hoisting him to his feet. Mike staggers out of the bathtub, left foot first, no weight on his right.

Harvey takes out the bottle of pills that they gave him at the hospital and sets them on the counter while Mike towels himself down.

"Get dressed, take one, and yell if you need help getting to the bedroom," he says.

"And they say romance is dead," Mike replies, which draws a startled, unintended laugh out of Harvey.

When Mike limps out of the bathroom again, he detours towards the living room. Harvey really does think that sleep is probably the best option here, and is about to say so, but Mike just collects the blanket he left on the sofa and stands there, turning it over in his hands.

"Um, thanks," he says. "I'm gonna..."

"I think that's a good idea," Harvey agrees. "Sleep as long as you want. If I'm gone in the morning, there's food in the fridge."

Mike nods and limps off, and Harvey watches him go, pretending to read a file.

He puts on an LP, soft jazz with the volume low, and does some catch-up work; has another glass of wine, unwinds, makes a list of crap he has to tackle tomorrow. By the time he's done, it's late, and there hasn't been any noise from the guest room for a while. When he looks in -- just to make sure Mike's not dead, because training up Boy Associate to be a half-competent human being is beyond his level of patience -- he sees a huddled lump curled up under the two blankets on the bed, plus the one Mike seems to be treating as a security blanket. Mike is lying facing away, towards the floor-to-ceiling windows, as if falling asleep is easier with the reassuring lights of Manhattan below.

***

He'd hoped Mike would sleep in, thus saving him from having to look at the kid's pathetic bruised face, but when Harvey walks out of the bedroom the next morning, still in his pyjamas, Mike is curled up on the sofa and under that damn blanket again, with his booted foot propped on the coffee table and a book in one hand.

"Couldn't sleep?" Harvey asks. Jesus, Mike made coffee.

"Slept for a while. Weird dreams," Mike says. "I went over the Bothaven filings and fixed your typos."

Harvey pauses with the coffee halfway to his mouth. "Why did you do that?"

"Because you had a lot of them?" Mike ventures.

"You're supposed to be...resting and stuff."

Mike shrugs, not quite meeting Harvey's eye. "So you're heading in?" he asks.

Harvey sips his coffee, contemplating his impossible, bizarre, wounded associate. Two days ago, when he saw Mike in the hospital, it felt like his heart stopped, and he hates that feeling. It occurs to him that in that moment he would have given anything to see Mike's eyes open. _Anything_ to have stopped that car.

_Mike's helmet split in half, hanging from a cop's hand like an afterthought..._

"Probably," he says, and sets his coffee down.

In the bedroom, he pulls his phone out of its charger and calls Donna.

"How's my schedule look today?" he asks.

"Well, you have the Portman meeting at eleven and two subpoenas you need to file are in your condo," she says. "Puppy getting to you? Did he do the thing where his eyes get all big and sad?"

"Mock later," Harvey tells her. "Portman loves lunch meetings, can we push him back to noon and get a table at that French place he likes?"

"If I can't push him to noon, can you do an eleven o'clock lunch?"

"Somehow I will suffer through. Talk to IT, get Mike a new phone and courier it over along with anything I need to see today. I'll courier the subpoenas back. Do you trust whatshisname to file them?"

"I'll bribe Rachel to do it."

"Great. Anything else?"

There's a slight pause.

"Louis," Harvey concludes.

"He's going to want to know why Mike's not back."

"He's not back because someone hit him with a car two days ago."

"You remember how he got about Bert when he had strep throat?"

Harvey frowns. "Who the hell is Bert?"

"You're such an ass. Bert the associate had strep throat and Louis made him come in anyway and sit in an _isolation cubicle_ so he could do his work and not infect anyone else."

Harvey pinches the bridge of his nose. "Okay, take a letter. To Louis Litt from Harvey Specter, re: Associate Mike Ross. Dear Louis colon return, he's my associate and you can kiss my ass full stop return, sincerely return, Harvey Specter."

"Shall I doctor that up a little?" Donna asks.

"Don't lose the gist of it. Copy Jessica on it."

"How's he doing?"

"He's fine. I'll keep him busy. Call if anything comes up."

He hangs up, glances around, and begins dressing for the day.

Back in the living room, Mike squints when he emerges in a henley and khakis. "Did we just get Casual Friday?" he asks.

"That's funny, because I don't do casual," Harvey replies. "I have a lunch meeting today, but I can do the rest from here."

"Oh." Mike looks thoughtful, and also a little zonked. "You don't have to."

"Of course I don't have to," Harvey says, pulling his laptop out of his briefcase and switching it on, settling in next to Mike. "I'm a senior partner, I do what I _want_ to. Pass me the Bothaven filings."

He works in silence for a while, correcting the errors Mike (somewhat waveringly) underlined in red, Mike slumped next to him, reading and occasionally shifting his right leg restlessly. Eventually even that stops, and shortly after there's a soft thump as Mike's head hits his shoulder. He's dead to the world.

Mike's supposed to be resting and he's all bruised, which is the reason Harvey comes up with for not elbowing him off.

The courier shows up just before noon, while Harvey is dressing for lunch and Mike's still unconscious, though he's laid out on the sofa now. They swap packages, phone and files for subpoenas, and Harvey leaves the phone on the coffee table for Mike to find when he wakes up. He resists the urge to leave a note explaining where he's gone. Mike isn't either his girlfriend or his child, after all.

He feels off-kilter, being out in the city; his routine has been disrupted, between the hospital and catch-up work and the morning spent with someone sleeping on him. Cars are menacing. It's annoying.

"You seem distracted, Harvey," Portman observes to him over lunch. "I hope I'm not boring you."

"Not at all," Harvey says, though Portman is an insufferable bore and Harvey suspects he's here discussing changes to Portman's extensive will because the man doesn't have anyone else to talk to.

"It's woman trouble, isn't it?" Portman asks. Oh god, he's going for locker-room talk. "You ladykillers are all alike."

"I could wish," Harvey forces a grin. "No, my associate -- have you met Mike?"

"Yes, the young man with the skinny ties?"

Well, at least Mike's making an impression. "He was injured a few days ago."

"I'm so sorry. Not seriously, I hope?"

Harvey does a quick calculation before answering. It was serious, undoubtedly, but calling it that, admitting it's been the cause of his distraction, may show weakness -- then again, Portman doesn't care about that kind of thing overmuch. Still...

"Yeah. He was in the hospital," he says finally. "He'll be fine, but it's made the past few days a little...disorderly."

"Understandable. You know I'm not terribly close to my family -- " Portman grins, because Harvey does know; he's leaving most of his estate to a series of charities, rather than his equally boring children, " -- but I have very strong friendships with many of my colleagues. One grows to care about them. It's terribly upsetting when something happens to one of them."

He launches from there into a story about an accountant with some kind of flesh-eating disease, and Harvey pretends to pay attention. He is not upset. He doesn't care about Mike, it's just that Mike is the best -- as Boy Associate has proven -- and Harvey never settles for less. When Mike isn't there to do his bidding and look pretty, it means Harvey has to do a lot of boring paperwork.

This whole stupid thing is messing with him and Harvey does not like it.

He returns to the condo still feeling weirdly dissociated from the world. Mike is awake, standing at the glass, one hand resting on it (fingerprints!) while he talks on his new phone. Scattered across the coffee table is the wreckage of his messenger bag: broken pens, a few battered Pearson Hardman files, the guts of his old phone, and on top of those, the key to a bike lock that no longer exists.

"I'm okay, Gram," Mike is saying, clearly not having heard Harvey come in. "No, I told you, I'm at Harvey's place." There's a pause. "He's not like that. No, it's not about that, he said I didn't have to come in for a week. Well, yeah, but only because the files are there and I get bored." A long pause. "I know. She's fine, I talked to her earlier."

Harvey tilts his head, wondering just what kind of impression Mike's grandmother actually has of him. He's not cruel to Mike. He's staying home to look after him, isn't he? And anyway why does he care what Mike's grandmother thinks of him, it's not like she's a client.

"I think I'm better off here," Mike says, in a weirdly intense voice. "Okay. I love you too. I'll call you tomorrow. Bye."

Harvey shuts the door loud enough to make his presence known, and Mike turns -- then grunts when the sudden movement pulls at some bruise or other.

"I see you got your phone working," Harvey says, pulling off his tie.

"Yeah, just like new," Mike answers. "By the way, _You'd better be in the hospital because if not I'm going to put you there_? Not that funny in retrospect. How was lunch?"

"Tedious," Harvey calls from the bedroom, changing back into his khakis. "Pointless. Food was good."

"Harvey 'silver lining' Specter does it again," Mike replies. "Hey, do you care if I put in a DVD? Reading's bugging me."

Harvey leans out of his bedroom. "Do we need to worry about that?"

"No, I think it's the painkillers. Okay: Shawshank Redemption, Rudy, or Legally Blonde?"

Harvey gives him a look. "Legally Blonde?"

"It's a cinematic masterpiece," Mike protests, and Harvey has the terrible suspicion he's serious.

"None of those." Harvey picks up the remote and queues up number four in his DVD-changer. The menu for the collector's edition original TRON appears on the screen.

"Oh, I forgot, you're a closet geek," Mike says, settling back on the sofa.

"I play for the Users," Harvey replies, and starts the film.

***

Aside from the hospital, where Mike was mostly just quiet, Harvey hasn't really seen Mike do anything but sleep after taking the Vicodin the hospital prescribed. There are probably more surreal films than TRON to show someone high on opiates, but even Harvey will admit that he can't think of many. Mike is fascinated and horrified by turns. It's really funny.

Mike has also managed to twine his hand in a corner of Harvey's shirt, and every time Harvey gently untangles him, it's about three minutes before he grabs it again. It's not really getting in the way of the work he's doing while the movie plays in the background, it's just this strange constant reminder -- of Mike's presence, of Mike's injuries, that Harvey has an entirely separate human being living in his home that he's expected to look after.

He rubs his eyes. This brief is uninteresting, the worst kind of scutwork, and for the last half hour he hasn't really been paying attention. He keeps thinking about the split bike helmet, the bruise on Mike's leg, the crunching sound on the little handheld video camera when Mike hit the hood. He keeps thinking about Portman saying _One grows to care about them._

Mike has his right leg propped up again, but his left is curled against his chest, and the pajama pants he's wearing have ridden up enough that the edge of the bruise is visible. Harvey stares at it, covertly. When he played baseball, he was hit a couple of times by line drives; the bruise was always really ugly, but in the direct center, at the hardest point of impact, it'd be numb. Sometimes it was weeks before the nerves would recover, long after the bruise had faded.

He doesn't realize he's reached out to trace the line of the bruise with his fingers until Mike shifts and turns his head, looking at him.

There's no real way out of a situation like this, no graceful retreat. Harvey presses lightly against the center of the bruise.

"Numb?" he asks. Mike nods. "It'll heal up."

"Parts of my face, too," Mike says, lifting Harvey's hand away from the bruise and pressing it just below his cheekbone. "Here. I think it was the strap."

Harvey nods, exploring the bruise with the pads of his fingertips until Mike twitches away and turns back to watch the movie again. His hand is white-knuckle tight in the edge of Harvey's shirt. Harvey untangles it for the fifth or sixth time and stands up.

"Press until it hurts," Mike murmurs, but Harvey goes to the kitchen to get something to drink, pretending not to hear.


	3. Avengers Shortfic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short snippets from various attempts at Avengers fanfic.

_I think this one was actually cut from some fic, but at this point I'm not sure which one. Steve has just called Tony on "showboating" for a crowd who are watching them pick up after a battle, and Tony decides to prove that showboating can have depth, too. (No pairing.)_

"What the hell do you think it is I'm doing here?" Tony said, with his best fake smile still on.

"Enjoying the spotlight."

"For a guy with good aim you're so far off the mark you're not even in the same zip code," Tony continued pleasantly. "You want to know how you stop the fucking mess the world is in? You teach people not to be psychopaths. Watch."

He walked up to the barricade, grinning and waving. "Hey there," Steve heard him say to a gaggle of schoolkids at the front. "Bet you didn't think you were gonna see this today, huh? Hey, who wants to be an Avenger?"

Every hand popped up.

"Well, ya can't, you're too young. So you have to find some stuff to do till you get a little bigger. You, what's your name -- yes, you, with the glasses -- "

"Micah, Mr. Stark."

"Tony, come on, I'm not your teacher. What are you studying -- biology, cool, you like biology?"

"Yessir."

"Good. You go be a biochemist, you maybe cure the common cold, huh? 'Cause there's nothing worse than sniffles. Ohhh, look at you," Tony added to another kid. "Bionic leg and all," he continued, and Steve saw the child shuffle nervously, one stiff -- oh, god, a prosthetic leg, there was no way this could go well --

"Look at this, is this a StarkOrtho leg?" Tony asked, and the little boy nodded shyly. "Awesome. Want me to sign it?"

Another shy nod, and Tony dropped to one knee, pulling a sharpie out of his suit. He picked up the leg, bending it carefully at the knee, and propped the foot against his thigh. "To -- what's your name?"

"Bobby."

"To...Bobby...Keep...kicking ass," and Tony signed with a flourish. "There. You're going to have the coolest left leg in the fifth grade. Oh, man, hey there," he said, as a small face appeared at his eye level. "Can I pick you up? Can I pick him up? Promise to return him. Here we go," he said, and Steve watched as Tony hefted a young child in his arms, standing. Before he could register what was happening, Tony had walked back to him, kid still in his arms, and Steve could see he was wearing a CAPTAIN AMERICA t-shirt.

"This," Tony said to the kid, "is Captain America. Neat, huh?"

"Wow," the kid replied. He must have been about six.

"Yeah, wow."

"Hi," Steve said nervously.

"You know what Captain America stands for?" Tony asked.

"Truth n'justice," the kid said.

"That's right. But he also stands for hope, and compassion, and kindness," Tony said, eyes locking with Steve's. "Isn't that right, Cap?"

The little kid was looking up at him with the biggest brown eyes Steve had ever seen.

"That's right," he managed, and smiled, and the kid smiled back.

"You want him to sign your shirt? Here," Tony said, passing Steve the marker, and pulling the kid's shirt out taut. "Sign, or I'll end you," he murmured in Steve's ear.

Steve signed, obediently, more of a squiggle than anything, and drew a star next to it. The kid squeaked.

"Be good," Steve told him, and Tony put the child down, sending him back to his mother with a gentle shove.

"And that's how you save the world," Tony told him. "One meet and greet at a time."

* * *

_I was going to write a fic about How Steve Rogers Slept With Everyone, but I only ever got the Coulson With Sex Pollen scene written, and even then not completed. (Cap/Coulson)_

The one small rational part of his mind that hasn't been overwhelmed is split: half of it is screaming at him that this is wrong, and the other half is thinking, over and over, _delicate, fragile, be gentle. Be gentle, he's breakable._

It's not something Steve has ever associated with Phil Coulson, fragility, but then he's never been in this particular position before. Agent Coulson, at SHIELD, is a commanding officer; he orders, Steve obeys, that's how chain of command _works_. In the field he's a fellow-general, an equal who defers to Steve's judgement as often as Steve defers to his. Smallest in stature of any of the Avengers, he still carries a taser and a gun and an air of authority, and Steve has never seen anyone outside the Avengers disobey an order from him. Coulson in his mind is an authority figure.

Coulson in his lap is a man. Ordinary -- short like Steve was before the serum, more wiry but still slightly built. He has more scars than Steve would have credited, dark and white lines across his otherwise smooth skin.

The drug demands touch, not violence; stimulation, not abuse. He can do this, he can give Coulson what he wants and get what his own nerves are screaming for, and he doesn't have to hurt either of them to do it. Control is out of the question but kindness is not.

***

"Are you okay?" Steve asks afterwards, when they're dressed again and the last of the gas fog is clear from his mind. They're sitting together on the floor, not quite touching, and he's worried.

"Yes," Coulson answers, after just long enough to consider it. "You?"

"Fine."

"Good." Coulson is silent, then inhales. "Well, that's a story to tell the grandkids, anyway."

"What is?"

"Nailing Captain America."

"Excuse me?" Steve asks.

"Sorry, too soon to joke?"

"I think it was more like getting nailed _by_ Captain America, that's all," Steve grumbles.

Coulson laughs. "You have a reputation to maintain?"

"We nailed each other?" Steve offers.

"That's not how my grandkids are going to hear it."

"Creepy, Coulson."

"Comes with the job."

* * *

_This was the opening to something. I have no idea what._

Before Clint, before SHIELD (long before Clint, a little before SHIELD) Phil Coulson had been an Army Ranger, a specialist sniper; his training and qualifications could fill a book you'd never be allowed to read.

He'd been recruited for SHIELD because his skill set lent itself well to a certain kind of espionage, and because Nick Fury called him the coldest motherfucker he'd ever met. This sometimes confused people, because Fury didn't seem the type to let another man win in that kind of competition, but the truth was Nick definitely wasn't cold. He was all about passion of one kind or another, usually a passion for shouting at people until they gave in. That was basically how he'd recruited Phil.

Fury had given him to Clint, not the other way around, something few people knew; he'd come back from a mission to find Fury in his office with a sullen-looking manchild who had, unless Phil was very much mistaken, recently come from prison (bruises on the insides of his wrists, that hair, and the certain set of his mouth).

"Phil Coulson, Clint Barton," Fury said. "You're partners now."

Clint, to his credit, stuck out his hand. "Coulson."

"Barton," Coulson replied, glancing at Fury. "Do I get a briefing, or have you finally discovered I know everything?"

Fury passed him a folder with a grin. "You're now Barton's spotter."

"I don't need one," Barton repeated, bored.

"Then I'll be your mother," Phil said, already nose-deep in the file.

"Definitely don't need one of those," Barton said.

Fury didn't so much send them out on missions as he did unleash them in the general area of a target. There was a settling-in period, of course, but Phil never pressed to actually be the spotter Clint genuinely didn't need, and Clint knew better than to try and push anyone's buttons when this was his life pardon.

Their fourth mission out, they found themselves in the rain, in a field in Germany, digging under the roots of a tree.

"Your stash box had better fucking be here, Coulson," Barton told him, tossing muck off his hands.

"It's here. Enough cash to get us somewhere warm and dry, and probably some clothes."

"Probably?"

"I don't remember the precise details of every stash box I've littered across Europe," Coulson replied tightly.

* * *

_I was going to write a fic about Bruce trying to give Steve the shovel talk over Tony, and Steve being all ahahahahaha this is funny because he's so into you! but it never really got off the ground. (Bruce/Tony preslash)_

"I think we should talk," Bruce said, sitting down on the bench.

"Sure. What's up?" Steve asked, still pounding the bag. 

"Uh, I've never done this, so..." Bruce took off his glasses, polished them, put them back on. Steve stopped the swing of the bag, glanced at him, and began punching again. "I know you and Tony have been spending some time together."

"Sure," Steve grunted. "Team bonding's important."

"Yeah. Of course. I just...Tony's great, but he's not always the most stable, when it comes to his personal life," Bruce said hesitantly.

"Is he having problems? I mean, he and Pepper have been..." Steve blew air through his teeth, then punched the bag again. "I thought they were okay after they broke up."

"They are. But I just want to make sure you're...doing this right," Bruce said.

"Doing what right?"

"I want to make sure Tony doesn't get hurt. And that you don't get hurt. Dating him," Bruce said.

Steve tried to swing at the bag and turn to gape at him at the same time, missed the bag, slammed into it with his shoulder, and fell over. Bruce stared for a second, blinking, and then blurted "Oh, my god!" and got up to help him up. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah -- ow -- fine..." Steve was still gaping at him as Bruce helped haul him to his feet. " _Dating?_ "

"Oh -- Christ, I'm sorry, I didn't think...look, it's fine now, people can do that, but maybe you thought -- I'm not here to beat you up or anything," Bruce babbled. "Not like I could, or would, I mean the other guy...but you know people are okay with it. I mean. most people. I am. Okay with it. If you are."

"We're not dating!" Steve said, jerking away. "Mother a'God, Bruce." 

"It's fine if you are! I won't tell, and I just -- I don't want it to end badly -- "

"But we aren't!" Steve said, voice rising in pitch. "We're not -- do people think that?"

Bruce spread his hands and then let them fall, haplessly. "You just...you guys get dinner together and you spar, and..."

Steve blinked at him. "I'm not gay, Bruce. I'm, I'm not good with women, but women are...where things are...for me."

"But you and Tony -- you're always talking, and..."

"I misjudged him," Steve said. "I said he wasn't anything without the suit, and it's true he's just...he's just a man, you know, but he's a good man, he's a fine person, he works real hard and...does, does he think...?" A horrified look crossed Steve's face. "He doesn't think we are, does he? Have I led him on?"

"I..." Bruce shook his head, "...don't know. I just assumed."

"I haven't got any friends, not really, not outside the team," Steve said, looking away. "He reminds me of my friends from before. We're friends. That's all. All I wanted, anyway." He set his jaw. "I should talk to him, maybe. Make it clear."

"Um, maybe find out if he thinks it first. Because maybe he doesn't! I don't know, now." Bruce slumped onto the bench, head in hands. "Aw, Christ, well done Banner."

"No, it's okay. It's not your fault. I'll find out. You know. Subtly." 

Bruce looked up at Steve, despairing.

"I can be subtle!" Steve protested. 

"Look, just...I'll talk to him and find out," Bruce said. "And if he doesn't, fine, then you're good."

"Are you sure?"

"I fix my mistakes," Bruce said. "Mostly, I mean."

Steve nodded, and then tilted his head. A small smile crossed his face.

"You came down here to tell me to treat him right, huh?" he asked.

"Don't rub it in."

"You came down all protective of Tony Stark, to warn me off hurting him. Aw, Bruce," Steve said, smile widening into a grin. "Look at you, you team player."

"I could get the Other Guy out and we'll see about that," Bruce threatened.

"You want your friends to be happy, it's sweet," Steve replied, chucking him under the chin. Bruce batted him away, smiling. "I promise, I have only Tony's best interests at heart."

"I'm gonna go salve my wounded pride now," Bruce said, getting up. 

"Yeah, don't bump your head on Tony's ego."

"Goodnight, Steve."

"Hey, Bruce," Steve called, just before he reached the door. Bruce turned. "Tony is one of mine. You are as well. All of you. We have to look out for each other 'cause nobody else is gonna. Your instincts are good, when it comes to protecting what's yours. Listen to them."

Bruce nodded. "I'll see you at breakfast."

* * *

_This is a scene I considered putting into a sequel to Better To Reign In Hell, my AU where Loki is banished to Midgard instead of Thor. I decided that if I did write it, I'd go a different route. (Tony/Pepper)_

It wasn't difficult to locate Stark Tower, though it wasn't the tallest tower or the most decorative. It did, however, have the world STARK on it in large letters, which was helpful.

"I am here to present myself to the King of New York, Tony Stark," Loki said to the woman who greeted him.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.

"Yes," Loki lied.

"Name?"

"Loki Ofmidgard. Loki with an 'o'," he added, because he'd found this was helpful. 

"How do you spell that last name?"

He spelled it, and she frowned. "You're not on our access list for today."

"I imagine not. I'm new," he said. "But it is somewhat urgent that I speak with him."

"Journalist?" she asked, giving him a shrewd look. He made a quick decision.

"No," he said.

"Oh -- are you the rep from Landworks?" she asked. "Your appointment's not until tomorrow."

"If I could see him today..."

"I'll check, hold on hon," she said. She had a communication device similar to the ones he'd seen in New Mexico, and she tapped it. "JARVIS? Hi, Landworks is here early. Is Mr. Stark -- yes, I'll hold." She covered part of the device with a hand. "JARVIS handles Mr. Stark's appointments. Mr. Stark is in his workshop today, he probably doesn't want to be disturbed. What's that? Oh, sure." She tapped the device again. "JARVIS says you can go on up. The elevator will take you straight to the workshop."

She gestured at a door opening behind her, so Loki stepped into the little room beyond. He had a sensation of great speed, and eventually one of great height, and when the doors opened again he was looking out on an interesting sight.

Tony Stark's workshop appeared to be inspired by dwarven forges. Music filled the air, quieting considerably when he walked into the room. Tony Stark himself was standing at one of the workbenches, wiping his hands on a rag.

"You know, I'm not a prompt guy myself but I like it in others. Being a day early might be overdoing it," he said, when he caught sight of Loki. "Nice suit. Prada?"

"Gucci," Loki replied. He'd done a lot of magazine reading on the bus ride to New York.

"Well, try not to get it stained or set on fire or something. You caught me on a workday," Stark continued, picking up a red gauntlet from the bench. He slipped it onto one hand. "Just testing out the new tech."

"It's quite impressive," Loki replied.

"Thanks. Packs a punch, too," Stark said, and a beam of white light shot past Loki's head, putting a dark char-stain on the wall behind him. Loki stared at it. When he turned back, the light at the center of the gauntlet's palm was aimed at him.

"I know who you are," Stark said. "I know what you're capable of. My guy JARVIS recognized you from the SHIELD database. I don't know what exactly happened in New Mexico but I know you fucked some shit up and I am not interested in buying anything you're selling."

Well. This was not entirely what he had expected.

Before he could speak, the doors behind him opened again and a woman walked out.

"Tony, Beth at the front desk just called and said the Landworks representative was here a day early and I thought -- oh my god, what are you _doing?_ " she asked, darting forward and putting herself between Stark and Loki. "You can't shoot salesmen, Tony!"

"Fighting evil here, Pep, you want to step to one side?" Stark asked.

"Are you Virginia of the Pots?" Loki asked. She turned.

"Excuse me?"

"Pepper, seriously, will you get out of the -- "

"Not now, Tony, rescuing you from a PR disaster."

"He's an evil mastermind!"

"I'm sure," she replied, offering Loki her hand. "Yes, I'm Virginia Potts. Beth says you're Mr. Ofmidgard?"

"Just so," Loki replied, taking her hand and kissing it. "And may I say what a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance, my lady."

* * *

_This was going to be a Tony/Bucky fanfic, because of reasons. (Tony/Bucky, natch.)_

Tony was not pleased, at first, by the request.

"Look, I don't mean to besmirch your eternal bromance or anything, but I've done my time with murderous sociopaths, I'm not eager to repeat the experience," he said. 

"He's not -- that's not him," Steve said.

"Funny, all the murdering could have fooled me," Tony said. "You want me to put a new robot arm on a guy who probably shouldn't have one to begin with."

"It's old and it's falling apart. I know you could help," Steve said.

"Could is not Will." Tony glanced at Natasha. "Your turn."

"To what?" she asked, blank-faced.

"Convince me. This is where you jump in with a status update, right?" Tony asked, crossing his arms.

"I was trained by the Winter Soldier. Before him, I was trained by Red Room. I know what his programming was like," she said. "I personally helped them clear out his triggers. He's gaining himself back by the day."

"But he's not back yet."

"He has days," she allowed. "But fewer and fewer."

"I'll be there," Steve said.

"And if he rips a screwdriver out of my hand and stabs me in the eyeball with it?" Tony asked.

"Then you get to build yourself a bionic eyeball," Natasha said evenly. 

"I didn't think you used anything as plebeian as a screwdriver," Steve said. Tony glanced at him. "Yeah, I know some fancy words."

"I have to have tools if I'm going to upgrade his arm, and those tools are frequently pointy," Tony said. 

"We can sedate him," Natasha replied.

"Yeah, I'm sure that'll work about as well on him as it does on the guy who shakes off horse tranquilizers," Tony said, jerking his thumb at Steve. "I don't think you get it. I am the ultimate symbol of capitalist America. More than Captain America, more than a flag made out of hundred dollar bills. I am everything Winter Soldier was trained to kill. How can you be sure my god damned face won't set him off?"

"Never figured you for a coward," Steve said. 

"Sure you did, and as I get older I value having all my body parts intact," Tony said.

Natasha glanced at Steve, shrugged, and held out her phone to Tony. 

"Specs on the arm," she said. "Can you even do anything with them?"

"Are you saying I can't do better than Communist Russia in the sixties?" Tony scoffed, accepting the phone. "I just don't want to be murdered while I'm..."

He trailed off, one hand rising to scratch thoughtfully at his beard. 

"How much does this weigh?" he muttered, scrolling through the specs. 

"Got him," Natasha whispered. 

"You do not," Tony replied. "I could redesign this thing all night long but that doesn't mean I'm getting anywhere near Capsicle Mark Two."

"I'll be there the whole time," Steve said. He hesitated. "Please, Tony."

Tony glanced up.

"You're damn right you will," he said, handing the phone back to Natasha. "Email me everything. We'll do a prelim exam tomorrow. I may just need to rip the whole thing off and build something new. What he's got now is like, one step up from steam-powered." 

He wandered off, muttering about pistons and gears, and Natasha smiled as she emailed the specs on her phone.

"Got him," she murmured softly.

"I really hope Buck doesn't kill him," Steve replied, just as softly. "Some days I still want to."

"Well, look on the bright side. You have a hotter temper than James does," Natasha replied. Steve gave her a weak smile. 

***

"So, you're Stark's kid," Barnes said, when Tony walked into the cell he was currently occupying. It wasn't bad; a clean white room with a pallet and a bookshelf, a bathroom, a television protected by shatterproof plastic. 

James Barnes was leaning against a wall, arms crossed -- really, that arm was horrifying, Tony itched to disassemble it for scrap. Every inch of the man radiated tension, which wasn't surprising. The frontal attack wasn't a shock either. Tony grinned. 

"I like to think that Stark's my old man," he replied, even as Steve said _Bucky!_ in a scandalized tone. "Well, I don't know, he's dead now, so. My revenant?"

"You as good as he was?"

"He wasn't building circuitboards when he was six, so I'm gonna say yes," Tony answered. 

"Hear you got a built-in nightlight," Barnes said.

Tony shot a glance at Steve, who looked guilty.

"Okay, here's some rules," Tony announced, turning to Steve. "You, stand there, say nothing, save my life if your buddy here tries to kill me. You, over here," he said to Barnes, pointing to the floor in front of himself. "And gimme a hand."

"You're funny," Barnes snarled, staying put.

"You have no idea, baby," Tony replied. "Look, I don't have to fix the train engine you got hanging off your shoulder. I'm doing this as a favor to Frosty. I'm told on good days you still like him, even though I think he's kind of a prick. If you don't want to be nice to me, I don't require it, but you could cooperate on his account."

Barnes seemed to be evaluating him carefully.

"Yeah fine," he said, and came to stand right in front of Tony. They were about of a height, and their noses were nearly touching. Tony grinned.

"Peaches, I'm gonna like you," he said, and grabbed the arm, pulling it between them. "This, I don't like. Let's have a look, and we'll get you into the fake arm equivalent of a new suit from Gucci."

***

It was three weeks before Steve was comfortable leaving them alone while Tony worked -- three weeks, really, before Bucky was comfortable without a safeguard there. Tony, if he cared, gave no sign once the initial verbal sparring was over with. 

He'd run through the entire gamut of fruit nicknames, from Kiwi to Applesauce to Satsuma, and was now working his way through insects.

"Okay, Junebug," he said one morning, carrying a small case of tools into the cell. "The time has come for a little cybernetic surgery."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bucky asked, sitting on the bed, tossing playing cards at a bowl. 

"I can't go any further with the shoulder-joint design on the new model until we rip out the old one and have a poke around," Tony replied. Bucky tossed another card, and it spun gently into the bowl. "Once it's out, it's out for good until the new one's ready. You prepared to go unarmed?"

"You're so funny, punk," Bucky said, but he was grinning. "Sure, I jerk off with my right, I can give up the left for a bit."

"Does Rogers know you talk like that?" Tony asked, pulling a chair up to the bed. Bucky went to sit up, but Tony put a hand on the arm, holding him in place. "No, this is a good height."

"Who d'ya think taught me to talk like this?" Bucky asked. Tony opened the case, tucking it between his feet, and set to work prying the housing off the arm. 

"Butter wouldn't melt in Capsicle's mouth, don't feed me that line," Tony said around a screwdriver clenched in his teeth. 

"Yeah, he likes people to think that," Bucky said. Tony raised an eyebrow as he got the housing off. "The stories I could tell you."

"You know, I'm a fan of him and all, but..." Tony grunted as he began probing the shoulder joint where the arm was implanted, "...I'm not that interested in Tales Of Captain America's Youth."

"What are ya interested in?" Bucky asked. Tony glanced up.

"At the moment, clipping some of these wires," he said, and set to work. 

***

Steve cornered him in his workshop that evening, looking better than he had in weeks -- like maybe he'd actually slept and eaten a square meal, which there hadn't been a lot of since they recovered the Winter Soldier.

"You took his arm off?" he asked. 

"Had to. Can't put the new one on over the old one," Tony replied. "It'll be four days, a week at the outside."

"But it's his arm!"

"No, it's a piece of shitty technology that's probably giving him constant pain," Tony replied. 

Steve drew up short. "What?"

"His body is continually cycling between rejection and adaptation, and it weighs a fucking ton. It's likely he's been in more or less constant low-level pain since it was installed," Tony said. Steve blinked. "I am fixing your friend, Cap, and when I'm done with him he'll have an ultra-light, ultra-durable arm with all the bells and whistles. So back the fuck down," Tony added. 

To his credit, the Captain ducked his head and stepped back. "Sorry. I just -- he's all I have left from before. And -- and he's my friend, I -- "

"Okay, your trauma is super-fun and all, but this isn't actually about you. Let me do my goddamn job and when I'm done you can have your playmate back."


	4. Iron Man Identity Porn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the middle of a fanfic about Tony hiding his identity from the team and specifically from Steve. In the opening scenes (never written), Tony Stark ends up in the hospital, supposedly having had a heart attack while the Avengers were off doing battle. After securing him, Steve runs to the Mansion to tell Iron Man that his boss is sick...(Steve/Tony preslash)

"Iron Man!" Steve yelled through the glass, banging on it. "Iron Man!"

No movement.

"I can see you in there! Get out here!"

"He's not there," said a voice, and Steve startled.

"JARVIS?" he asked. "Let me in. He's right there!"

"No. He isn't."

"JARVIS, I can see him."

"I can't let you in, Captain Rogers."

"Is something wrong with him? I need to see him, JARVIS!"

"I'm sorry, Captain."

Steve leaned against the glass and looked up.

"I know you're programmed for security, but you know me," he pleaded. "I know you're also programmed to assess emergency situations. Mr. Stark's in the hospital, he's vulnerable. I need to get in, JARVIS, please."

There was a sound like a sigh, or maybe just the hiss of hydraulics. The door swung open, and the lights went on.

"Iron Man?" Steve asked, stepping inside. Eerie silence. "Listen, I know you must be scared, I know how much you like Mr. Stark, but..."

Not even a twitch of metal. Steve drew closer, concerned.

"At least tell me you're functional."

Nothing.

"Iron Ma -- " Steve reached out, coming around the front, and broke off in shock.

The armor was open. The helmet and faceplate were in place, but the chest was retracted, the thighs and biceps of the armor unclamped. Inside it was empty.

"JARVIS?" Steve said uncertainly.

"I did say he wasn't there," JARVIS reminded him.

"Where is he?"

"I'm not authorized to answer that question."

"Dammit, JARVIS!"

"I'm sorry, Captain. To locate Iron Man would be to reveal his identity."

"Can he even survive outside the suit? I thought..." Steve touched the helmet lightly.

"I can't answer that, Captain."

"Of course not," Steve muttered. "JARVIS, is everything secure?"

"Certainly, Captain. Mr. Stark gave the secure lockdown code before he lost consciousness. Unauthorized entry will be met with force."

"Good. Listen -- if, when Iron Man comes back, please tell him I need to speak with him. If you can get him a message, tell him?"

"I will do my best, Captain."

"Thanks," Steve said. He touched the helmet again, worried, and then left. The locks clicked shut quietly behind him.

***

When he got back to the hospital, things had quieted down; only Coulson was left, waiting for him.

"You just missed everyone else leaving," he said, offering Steve a cup of hospital cafeteria coffee. "They're on their way back to the Mansion. Any word from Iron Man?"

Steve shook his head. He didn't want to explain about the empty armor. Coulson patted his shoulder.

"He'll turn up. He always does. At least we know why he left early."

"Can I see Mr. Stark?"

Coulson gestured over his shoulder. "Visiting hours are over, but not many people have the heart to say no to Captain America."

Steve smiled.

"Room 238. Ms. Potts is in there now."

Steve made his way down the hallway, unaccosted by nurses or orderlies, and he could hear raised voices as he drew close.

" -- just a blip, Pep! I'm fine."

"A blip? A _blip?_ "

"Okay, more of a bleep."

"Tony!"

"I'm a heart patient," Mr. Stark's voice rose, mock-petulant. "You're supposed to be nice to me."

Steve heard Ms. Potts make a low, growling noise of annoyance, and he stood aside quickly as the door opened. She brushed past without even noticing him, stalking down the hallway angrily. He caught the door before it slammed and put his head in.

"Safe to enter?" he asked.

Mr. Stark lay on the bed, head and shoulders raised, an IV running into his wrist. He was pale, almost grey, lips white and dark eyes huge.

"Captain," he said, going for his usual sardonic smile and missing by a lot. "Come in. They send you to stand watch?"

"Just wanted to see how you were, sir," Steve said, sitting when Mr. Stark waved him weakly into a chair. He peeled his cowl back, letting it hang behind his head. Stark watched him.

"I always forget how young you are," he said softly.

"Not so young," Steve answered. "Technically I'm in my eighties. Guess Pepper read you the riot act, huh?"

"She gets loud when she's worried. She'll be fine."

"Will you?" Steve asked. Mr. Stark pushed himself a little further upright, and the sheet slipped down his chest. It was covered in a thick, square white bandage. "Are you sure you should even be awake? You just had heart surgery."

"Didn't, actually," Mr. Stark rasped. "There's a cup of ice..."

Steve picked up the cup on the side-table and offered it to him. Mr. Stark fumbled around and slipped a chip between his lips, sucking on it quietly.

"They thought they'd have to, but they got me stable. I don't even need to be here now, really," he said, around the ice chip.

"You look like you do. No offense."

"None taken. They can rehydrate me and do an EKG or five tomorrow, and I'll be happy to go home then." He narrowed his eyes at Steve, thoughtful. "Something's eating you, Captain."

"It's -- " not nothing, and he wouldn't lie. "Not something you should worry about right now."

"Aw, fuck it, I could use a little worry. It's pretty boring. Come on, lay it on me."

"Can..." Steve swallowed, then tried again. "Can Iron Man survive outside his armor?"

Stark raised a hand, clumsily rubbed his face.

"There is no Iron Man without the armor," he said finally.

Steve's heart sank. He bowed his head.

"I went to the Mansion," he said. "I went to your workshop -- JARVIS let me in but he wouldn't say where Iron Man was, and there was just...empty armor..." he looked up. "Is he dead, Mr. Stark? There wasn't any body..."

"Christ -- " Stark choked, coughed. "No, he's not dead."

"But -- "

"Jesus, you're an innocent," Stark said. "Don't worry about Iron Man. He's where he needs to be right now."

"I just want him to know you're okay," Steve said. "We were worried about you."

Stark smiled. "If I die, the bankroll won't get pulled, promise."

"Mr. Stark!"

"What? I guarantee that's what Coulson was thinking."

"Well...maybe," Steve admitted. "But it's not only that. And not that at all, not for us. We like you, Mr. Stark."

"Thank you, Captain," Stark replied, softening a little. "Iron Man knows what's happening. You," he said, raising a hand waveringly to point at him. "You go protect the world. I'm going to nap."

Steve smiled, reassured -- Mr. Stark wouldn't lie about Iron Man. "Yes, sir," he said. "Goodnight, Mr. Stark."

"Sleep well, Captain. I plan to."

***

JARVIS didn't let him back in the workshop, but Steve went down the next morning to check on the armor anyway. It was still there, slump-shouldered in the darkness, gleaming dull red and gold.

"Are you worried about him?" Natasha asked, joining him in the hallway, looking through the glass.

"Mr. Stark says he's where he should be," Steve replied.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It's Stark, who knows." Steve shrugged. "I thought about it. Maybe he's undercover at the hospital as a doctor, to keep an eye on Mr. Stark. Or maybe he's...running errands? Getting things ready for when he comes home."

It sounded weak, even to himself.

"Maybe," Natasha said dubiously. "Stark's checking himself out today, I heard Pepper fighting about it with him on the phone. Against Medical Advice."

"Yesterday he said he didn't need to be there. He's an odd one."

"We're all odd ones. Come on, we'd better make sure everything's ship-shape for when the master of the house returns."

Mr. Stark did come home that afternoon, looking less grey but no less tired. He walked in the front door with no fanfare, Happy's arm around his waist to keep him upright, and Steve watched from the kitchen, unwilling to bother him as he made his way to the elevator. It occurred to him that perhaps Happy was Iron Man, but now that he'd seen the inside of the suit, he didn't think Happy would fit.

He poured out a glass of milk, made a second sandwich, and carried the food up to Mr. Stark's room, knocking gently with an elbow.

"Happy, stop hovering, I -- oh," Mr. Stark said, when Steve stepped inside. "Two voluntary visits in two days? I should have myocardial infarctions more often."

"I thought you might want some food," Steve said, offering the plate. Mr. Stark looked at it, surprised, and then took it out of his hand.

"Thank you," he said, sitting down at a desk near the window. Steve glanced around subtly. Every surface in the room was piled with blueprints and design sketches; a huge touchscreen was mounted on one wall, and a holographic projection of the Iron Man armor turned continually in a corner. Stark took a huge bite of the sandwich and moaned in pleasure.

"Avocado," he said, mouth full, pointing to the sandwich. "I love avocado and turkey."

Steve smiled. "Do you need anything else?"

Stark swallowed and looked at him thoughtfully. "Not for now. Let people know I'm home?"

"Of course, sir. Can I..." he hesitated.

"Spit it out, Captain."

"It's just, Iron Man's still not back."

Mr. Stark was quiet for a long time. Finally he looked down, out through the window, back at Steve.

"Thank you for the sandwich," he said. It was a clear dismissal, so Steve muttered _you're welcome_ and left.

***

Mr. Stark wasn't an easy man to get to know. He was abrupt and absent on the rare occasions he socialized with the Avengers, and of course he was also a famous man, had a lot of demands on his time. Steve had probably spoken more with him in the last two days than in the last six months.

Iron Man had been that way at first too, but you couldn't go shoulder-to-shoulder against the bad guys with someone for so long and not lapse into some kind of familiarity. For all Mr. Stark's assurances, Steve slept uneasily.

He woke, sometime around dawn, to a gentle tapping noise; rain, perhaps, but not quite enough tapping for rain, and too regular --

When he turned his head, Iron Man was hovering outside his window. He was tapping on the glass, delicate, almost hesitant.

Steve felt a grin wash over his face, and then a surge of annoyance. He climbed out of bed and walked to the window, opening it before crossing his arms.

"I have a bone to pick with you," he said.

"Mea culpa. Stark business," Iron Man replied. "You know how it is."

"That doesn't mean I like it. You left, and Mr. Stark was in the _hospital_ and you weren't there to protect him, and then I came here and your armor was in the shop, and Mr. Stark wouldn't say where you went, I didn't even know you could leave the -- sorry, sorry," he interrupted himself when he saw Iron Man's shoulders slump. He rubbed the back of his head. "I'm ranting. But I was worried."

"I know. Stark told me." Iron Man's head tilted, ingratiatingly. "Come on, don't be mad. I saw you smile when you saw me."

Steve gave him a shy grin. "Well, it'd be hell to replace you."

"You're not kidding. Forgiven?"

Steve narrowed his eyes. "Mostly forgiven."

"Guess that'll have to do." Iron Man glanced around, like someone was going to see him hovering outside the window, and then leaned in. "You want to fly?"

"I'll get dressed," Steve said.

Flying with Iron Man was one of the best things, maybe ever; with his leg flaps partly extended, Steve had a firm toe-hold, and with one arm around his neck he could lean out over open space and look down, confident that if he did slip, he wouldn't fall far. It had only happened once, but free-fall had been exhilarating and amazing. He'd known Iron Man would catch him.

"You're cautious today," he yelled over the wind, a few minutes into the flight. "Come on, you know I won't fall."

"Give me a break, I've been running on empty for two days," Iron Man answered. "You want fancy flying, huh?"

"Yes!"

Iron Man laughed, secured Steve's arm around his neck with one firm gauntleted hand, and did a barrel roll that left him kicking for purchase, hanging out over open space.

"That's more like it!"

They weren't up for very long, maybe only half an hour, but when they landed on the roof, Steve beamed at him.

"Okay, fully forgiven," he said, and Iron Man clapped him on the shoulder. "But I want to ask you something."

"Oh?" his helmet raised, and Steve wished for the hundredth time that he could see expressions in the faceplate.

"I didn't think you could live outside the suit. I guess I assumed it was some kind of...life support," Steve said. "But you can, can't you?"

The expressionless helmet tilted a little. "There is no Iron Man without the armor."

"Mr. Stark said that too, but -- it's okay, you know, you're a person in there, you're more than the armor. I'm not saying you have to, or anything, but I wouldn't mind seeing your face. You know your identity's safe with us. With me."

"There's more to it than just who I am."

"Is there? Would it be so awful if I knew? If you're worried Mr. Stark would be angry, I could talk to him."

"Aw -- fuck," Iron Man answered, shaking his head. "It's not that."

"Then what?"

He had barely finished talking, wasn't even expecting much of an answer, when Iron Man said, "Helmet retract, override twelve beta," and the metal slid back smoothly, folding in on itself, telescoping away from his face.

It took him a second to understand what he was seeing: the touseled black hair, dark eyes, the familiar-unfamiliar scruffy beard of --

"Mr. Stark?" Steve asked, staring.

"Sorry, Cap," Mr. Stark said, brushing hair out of his eyes with a gauntleted hand. He looked genuinely ashamed.

"Is this a _joke_? Where's -- "

"I'm Iron Man. There's nobody else. Always have been." He looked away, out over the rooftops. "You see how things get complicated fast."

"You son of a bitch," Steve breathed.

"Cap, I know -- "

"You should be in bed, you almighty idiot!" he said, and shoved him in the shoulder. Iron Man -- Mr. Stark -- stumbled backwards. "You had a _heart attack!_ What the hell are you doing -- "

" _That's_ what you're pissed about?" Stark asked.

"Take off the armor. Take it off right now, I know you can."

"Easy there, buy me dinner first -- "

"Take it off, Iron Man!"

Stark sighed. "Release," he said, and the chestplate flipped out, the limbs opening. He stepped down from it, wearing nothing but a pair of loose cotton trousers and the bandage over his chest, shivering in the cold.

"Inside, now," Steve ordered.

Stark gave him an incredulous look, but he turned to the suit and said, "Return home, override gamma." It closed itself, pulled the helmet back out, and took off of its own accord. "Look, we can -- "

He stopped, because Steve had taken off the coat he was wearing for flying, settling it around his shoulders. Here, in the wind and cold, Stark looked small -- bereft of the armor, huddling into the coat, barefoot, still pale.

"Inside," Steve repeated, pointing at the door.

"You realize I pay your salary -- "

"Stark!"

"Fine, Jesus," Stark muttered.

They walked downstairs in silence, Steve with one hand on Stark's arm, until they reached his bedroom.

"We should talk -- "

"You should go inside and lie down before I punch you in the face," Steve warned.

"You're an awfully big talker when I'm not in the armor," Stark grumbled, but he went inside and sat down on the bed, crosslegged, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders, over Steve's coat. Steve pulled a chair around from the desk and sat on it backwards, staring at him.

"I'm a public figure," Stark said, finally. "Two, now, but I was Tony Stark first. I'm an easy target outside the armor. And I didn't think it was fair to make you give orders to the guy paying for the Initiative."

"Maybe not at first, but -- " Steve shook his head. "I feel like a hypocrite. We all have secret identities. Just...not from each other."

"It's easier in the armor," Stark murmured.

"Easier isn't always better," Steve pointed out. Stark rubbed a hand over the bandage on his chest. "And you shouldn't be fighting if it's going to give you a heart condition. I'm grounding Iron Man until you're well."

"I'd like to see you try," Stark replied. "Anyway, it's not what you think."

"Then what?"

Stark shrugged the blanket off his shoulders, reaching up with both hands to peel off the tape holding the bandage down. Light filtered out from underneath, eerie and unreal, and then the bandage came off. Between his pectorals, over his heart, there was a glowing metal object, a palm-sized circle.

"What is it?" Steve asked, fascinated.

"Primary power source for the suit," Stark replied. "It's also keeping me alive. There's shrapnel..." he gestured to the slim white scars that pocked his chest. "It's inoperable, and it's threatening my heart. The arc reactor powers an electromagnet that keeps the shards in place. When I had to leave the fight -- sorry about that, by the way -- it was because the reactor had taken a hit. One in a million chance but it hit just right, threw the electromagnet slightly out of alignment. Almost took a piece of metal about yea big -- " he held up thumb and forefinger, not very far apart, "right in the aorta. I've made some adjustments. Shouldn't happen again."

He pulled the blanket back up around his body, but didn't put the bandage back over it. Light glittered through the fabric.

"I don't want special treatment, and I don't need coddling," he said.


	5. Ultimates Kidfic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Ultimate Comics, a spinoff of the regular Marvel comics, Tony Stark had a brain tumor that he managed to initiate communications with. He pictured his tumor as a young boy named Anthony, a surrogate son. Before Anthony and Tony both died in the comic (only Tony came back), I had an idea for getting Anthony out of Tony's head. 
> 
> It should be noted that in Ultimates, Tony is a bit of a party boy, and Steve is a lot less sensitive, a lot more emotionally constipated. Also, Steve was president for a while.
> 
> (No ships, though Steve/Tony if you squint.)

After Steve resigned as President -- the evening he resigned, or at least the evening that it was made official -- Tony took him out for a beer. Well, by "took out" Steve really meant "kidnapped him to the Stark Mansion".

"I do appreciate it," Steve said, accepting the drink from Tony as he stood at the window, looking out on the manicured lawn of the estate. "It's a relief to be done with it, that's for sure."

Tony nodded. "Yeah, don't think you slipped that past me."

"Slipped what past you?"

"Standing on a rooftop, shaking your fist at the falling debris in the sky? Were you consciously trying to die your way out of office, or didn't you know that's what you were doing?"

"I wasn't trying to get myself killed. It was a matter of principle."

"Whatever you say, Steve," Tony sighed. Steve sipped from his beer bottle.

"What a mess," he said finally.

"Less mess than there would be," Tony said. Steve glanced at him. "If you hadn't taken the reins. Less mess than someone else would have caused."

"Perhaps," Steve said. "I don't think I said, by the way, how proud I was of you."

"For what?" Tony asked. "I mean, there's so much to be proud of..."

"Egotist."

"Fuddy-duddy."

"Guilty. No, I mean, getting yourself to Sacramento. They kidnapped you and you broke yourself out without even any help, and then you came to help us."

"Anthony did most of the heavy lifting getting the armor to me."

Steve cast a look at him. "Anthony, of course."

He'd made it clear that he thought Anthony was a delusion -- a harmless one, a name given to Tony's mortality, but still not quite real.

***

The second time Tony was kidnapped, Steve tried to stay calm. Tony had failsafe after failsafe in place and had proved he could get himself out of trouble. Still, of course he went after him. Tony was an Ultimate, and Ultimates stuck together. Tony was his best friend. When they found the HYDRA warehouse where he was being kept, Steve wasted no time in attacking.

They went in with flashbangs to disorient any HYDRA agents and a long ground perimeter to catch runners. Steve was very satisfied to charge in after the flashbangs and start knocking heads together, and with Thor next to him he was sure they'd get Tony out in no time. He left Thor to the cleanup once the smoke started to clear, and went looking for Tony, opening doors, checking for hidden rooms.

When he finally opened the right door, he wasn't prepared for what he found.

Tony was lying on the ground, head lolled to one side, stripped to the waist and bruised all over. There were wires leading from his head to a machine, still functioning, and someone crouched over him, too small to be an adult.

The boy looked up, blue eyes widening, and threw himself forward.

"Steve!" he cried, wrapping thin arms around Steve's waist. "He won't wake up, I tried to wake him up -- "

"Who..." Steve took the boy's shoulders and pushed him back. He had Tony's delicate features, even finer in youth, and his his eyes -- everything about him told Steve who the boy was. "Anthony?"

"Please," the boy said. He couldn't be older than eight or nine at the most. He grabbed Steve's wrist and hauled him over to where Tony lay, and Steve went into triage mode immediately. Breathing seemed good, temperature was a little high, no visible blood and the bruises looked superficial.

"MEDIC!" he yelled.

There was a soft inhalation of breath behind him -- Tony was in front of him and the boy at his side, so Steve threw his shield without turning and heard a wet choking noise. Near the doorway, a man in a white lab coat collapsed to the floor, clutching his throat. No mercy for those who hurt Steve's friends. 

"He won't wake up," the boy repeated, frantic now. "I can't make him come online, he won't -- "

"Shh, he's breathing, he'll be fine," Steve said, pulling the electrodes out of Tony's hair, off his temples and forehead. "He'll be okay."

Paramedics pushed past him and Steve started to back away, but the boy wouldn't go -- he clung tightly to Tony's belt, until finally the medics looked to Steve.

"Anthony," he said, and the boy did look up at the name. "Anthony, we have to let them work. Come on," he urged, pulling Anthony away firmly. The child's hand shook in his.

Steve got them at least out of the way and then crouched, shucking his scale-mail and his uniform jacket. He pulled the mail back on over his undershirt and wrapped the jacket around Anthony, lifting him up.

"We're going to go wait for him outside, okay?" he asked. Anthony nodded, burying his face in Steve's chest.

"CHILD IN ARMS," he called, heading back through the doorway to the warehouse. "COMIN' THROUGH WITH A KID."

"Who the hell is that?" Hawkeye asked, dropping from his perch at one of the windows.

"Not right now," Steve answered, carrying Anthony out into the late evening chill, heading for the medical truck SHIELD had on site. Arms reached out for the boy, but Steve held on tightly.

"Be really brave for me, Anthony," he said, and felt Anthony nod against his chest. He climbed into the van and sat down on the low bed, reluctant to let the child go.

"He's in shock," he said, as a SHIELD medic crouched in front of them, taking Anthony's pulse. She checked his eyes, then snapped a bit of plastic around his finger and took out an IV bag.

"You're gonna feel a little pinch, okay?" she said to Anthony. "Make a fist for me."

"Good soldier," Steve murmured, still holding the boy. The medic tapped out a vein, swabbed it, and held his arm in a firm grip as Anthony turned his head away. He flinched when the needle went in, but didn't make a sound.

"That's it. You're not afraid of a little needle," Steve said, approvingly. Anthony curled every part of him but his arm into Steve, still shivering. The medic wrapped a blanket around them both.

"Keep him warm," she said. "We have another incoming?"

"Stark," Steve replied, even as a field-gurney arrived with Tony on it, looking pale and drawn under an oxygen mask. "Anthony, look, see? There he is."

"Is he gonna die?" Anthony asked, peering out from the nest made of the blanket, Steve's jacket, and Steve's own body. The medic with Tony looked at Steve, who nodded.

"We don't think so," he said, hooking Tony up to a bank of monitors in the truck. "Pupil dilation response is good, no major internal injuries that we can find. Was the kid with him?" he asked.

"When I got there, yes," Steve replied.

"Well, did you see him hit his head?" the medic asked Anthony. "Or did someone hit him?"

"He fell out of the chair pretty hard," Anthony offered, around sniffles.

"Hey," Hawkeye said, leaning into the van. "Cap, are you coming back out?"

"Am I needed?" Steve asked.

"No, we're good. What you want done with the guy with the large shield-mark on his throat?" Hawkeye asked, tossing Steve his shield.

"Isolate him, lock him up, and tell him I'll see him when I'm ready," Steve replied.

"Can do. Heading back to the Triskelion?"

"I think I'd better stay with Tony."

"I'll let Thor know. Page you for debrief," Hawkeye said, and disappeared. He hadn't once looked at Anthony.

"Okay, we're lifting off," the female medic said, locking down the gurney where Tony lay. "Captain, we need to belt him in."

"Belt me in," Steve said. "I'll hold him."

"That's not -- "

"Ma'am, I'm not interested in moving from where I am right now," Steve said, as Anthony burrowed deeper into the blanket. "So either let us both be or belt me in."

She looked from Anthony's huddled form to Steve's set jaw, and wisely went about securing him with a couple of shoulder straps.

***

By the time they reached the Triskelion medical bay, Anthony had stopped shivering and was looking around inquisitively. Steve eased him onto a second bed in the room where they were working on Tony, and Anthony clung to the jacket wrapped around his shoulders but otherwise seemed all right. Steve let the nurses take care of him while he wandered over to see what they were doing to Tony.

"He's got some unusual swelling," the doctor in charge said, pointing to what looked like a green blob on a screen. "It's like he's had the mother of all concussions."

"Tony's mind is his life," Steve said in a low voice. "Is there a possibility his brain...?"

"There's always a possibility, but I doubt it. What we're seeing isn't that severe. Still, I'd like to get him down into a medically induced coma for a few days." He glanced around Steve. "Who's the kid?"

"Anthony," he said. "He's...it's a long story I'm not sure you're cleared to hear. Just call him Anthony Doe for now."

"Whatever you say, Captain." The man gave him an expectant look that Steve chose to pretend he didn't understand. They wanted him out of here, and he could respect that, but he wasn't budging, not with Tony in a coma and his sentient brain tumor walking around outside his body. He nodded at the doctor and went back to Anthony, who was whining through his teeth as a nurse took blood.

"Hey, where'd my soldier go?" Steve asked, and Anthony's eyes popped open. "Don't tell me you're crying over _that_."

"No, m'not crying," Anthony said, wiping his eyes. The nurse looked appalled, but Steve ignored her.

"Good. You don't want to disgrace the uniform," he said, poking the sleeve of his jacket where it hung off Anthony's shoulders. Anthony gave him a shy smile. The nurse finished and pressed a cotton pad over the needle site, taping it down with a band-aid. She left to do whatever it was they did with peoples' blood, and Steve hitched himself up onto the bed to sit next to Anthony, legs dangling off the edge.

"So," he said. "This is new."

Anthony nodded.

"Do you know how you got outside Tony's mind?" he asked.

"Not really," Anthony said. "Tony told me to hide but they found me."

"Who?"

"Dunno. Tony was afraid of them. He said I just had to hide until Captain America came. And then you did!" he added with a bright look at Steve. "But not before they found me."

"Do you know how old you are?"

"I feel younger out here. I think I'm seven," he said.

"The docs are gonna keep Tony asleep for a while," Steve said. "So for now it's just you and me."

"You're not gonna leave me here, are you?" Anthony asked, voice rising. "I don't know who anyone is or where we are and Tony can't protect me -- "

Steve panicked. "No! I won't leave you here. Obviously. Tony would never forgive me."

Anthony looked up at him, searchingly, with the kind of scrutiny he usually only saw on Tony.

"He _said_ you'd come for us," he told Steve finally, and then looked away.

"Of course I did. Ultimates protect each other. You know that," he added hesitantly.

"We aren't used to it is all," Anthony said.

"Hey, little soldier," Steve said, and Anthony turned to look up at him. "Tony's gonna be fine, squirt. Until he wakes up, you're with me. You're in the safest place on the planet, the Triskelion."

Anthony's eyes were wide and a little awestruck. "You're just like Tony said."

"I hope that's a compliment," Steve sighed.


	6. Steve's Unexpected Threesome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the comics a while back, Jan van Dyne cheated on Hank Pym, her ex-husband and current sort-of-boyfriend, with Clint Barton. When Steve found out about her and Clint, he said that if they caused trouble for the team with their shenanigans, he'd have to "involve himself". Everyone I told about this was like "does Involve Himself mean Have A Threesome?"
> 
> Then Hank walked in on Jan and Clint having sex while the team was doing a mission in England.
> 
> (past Jan/Hank, Jan/Clint, Jan/Clint/Steve)

When the Avengers left England for home -- Steve still thought of Manhattan as home, despite the fact that the Avengers were now technically "citizens of the world" -- they left Hank Pym behind. It was Hank's request, made with bowed head and mutterings, and Steve had tried to be gracious and understanding and kind, but he suspected his kindness might have made things worse.

He was at the controls of the quinjet, admittedly probably kind of broody, when Tony dropped himself into the empty copilot's seat and turned to throw one leg over the arm, facing him.

"Privacy," Tony said, and the doors between the cockpit and the passenger seats began to close.

"What the hell, Tony?" Clint called.

"Mommy and daddy are talking, you kids play nice," Tony said, as the doors closed. Steve kept his eyes on the controls, waiting for Tony to talk.

"So," he said, finally. "Why the broodface, Capple Pie?"

"Not brooding," Steve said. "Concentrating."

"Uh huh. You can tell Tony."

"Are you the mommy or the daddy?"

"I'm the mommy, not that it matters," Tony said easily. "Is this about Hank staying behind?"

Steve sighed. "I can't discuss this with you."

"Really? Now I'm intrigued," Tony said, glancing out the cockpit windshield. "Is it because Clint and Jan are fucking and you think my tender feelings will be hurt?"

Steve looked at him, surprised. "You know?"

"Of course I know. Clint had her underwear tucked in his belt when we loaded up for that last mission."

"How do you know those were her underwear?"

"I remember those underwear. Those are her _freaky superhero sex_ underwear. Come to think of it, I may have given her those underwear."

"She was worried you'd be hurt."

"Because when we were going out she dumped me and said she couldn't sleep with someone who was Hank's friend, and now she is again? Please. That was like a hundred years ago, and it was an excuse. She didn't trust me, and she had every right not to, given how I lied to her about not being Iron Man. Anyway, even if that was a reason, Clint and Hank have never been, you know, tight with each other." Tony's dangling leg swung idly.

"Hank and Jan were still dating. While she was with Clint."

"That's not how I heard it."

"How did you hear it?" Steve asked.

"How I heard it is that Hank asked her to re-marry him and she said no. When they finally had it out about -- " Tony grew more serious. "When they finally talked about the time Hank hit her, back before the divorce -- "

Steve flinched.

"Hey, look, none of us knew how to handle that. We did all we could. Got him off the team, gave her the support she needed. I don't think we did too badly."

"I should have separated them sooner."

"They were married, and none of us knew he was unstable."

"We should have read the signs."

"Look, we handled it, Jan's fine, we did okay. The point is, when they finally talked about it, she told him she wanted an apology, she wanted him in therapy, and when he said no, she told him that was just one reason she was never going to marry him again."

"How do you know all this?" Steve asked.

"Jan told me."

"Well, I suppose I'm glad she talked to someone." 

"Gee, thanks."

"You know I didn't mean it like that, Tony," Steve said.

"Here's the thing: she told him she didn't want to marry him again and would never marry him again, because he hit her and he still won't admit he's to blame for that, which, good for her. But it means that relationship was dead in the water, and the only one who didn't understand that was Hank. So yeah, maybe technically they were still dating, but it's hard to fault Jan for moving on. The break was going to come, and it was never going to be pretty."

"I think it could have gone better than Hank walking in on them."

"So really, I'm still trying to understand. You're bothered because Hank dropped off the team?"

"No, that damage is done."

"Wouldn't be the first time you got broody over something you couldn't change."

"It's not leaving Hank behind. The team can do without him." Steve's grip tightened slightly on the control yoke. "Maybe it's better, even."

"Then what's wrinkling your flag panties?"

"Tony."

"Sorry. What's the problem?"

Steve heaved a sigh. "I told Clint that if his and Jan's affair destabilized the team, I'd have to involve myself."

"You really cannot keep your little headwings out of other peoples' business, can you?"

"I'm the team leader. What's bothering me is that I don't know what to do. I said I'd get involved, I can't just blow it off now. I mean, punishment seems…" Steve sighed. "Wrong. And how would I even do that? Put them in the corner until dinnertime? But I can't let this slide for either of them."

Tony shrugged. "You're too stubborn to fight with about that. So now you have to, ahaha, involve yourself?"

"What's with that?"

"With what?" Tony asked.

"Ahaha," Steve mimicked. "What's the laugh?"

"Oh, nothing," Tony said lightly.

"Not nothing," Steve corrected.

"I was just thinking, did you actually say you'd involve yourself? Because I can tell you where Clint's mind went if you did."

Steve gave him a blank look. "What?"

"Still so innocent," Tony said, a fond look on his face. "I love the pants off you, Steve, never lose that innocence."

"What, Tony?" Steve asked, annoyed.

"Not that you didn't get involved when I was dating Jan, because boy did you ever. But if you had actually told me you would _involve yourself_ , I would have gone straight to a threesome."

Steve choked. " _That's_ where your mind goes?"

"I promise you it's where Clint's went."

"No. No! Are you nuts?"

"Come on, Steve. If you whistled for Clint, he'd be naked before you stopped whistling. As for Jan," Tony continued, while Steve's world tilted on its side, "having the two of you? It'd be like sex with twins, without the skeevy incestuous edge."

"Clint...no, not really."

"He has spent years doing whatever he thought would get your attention, from yelling at you to being your protege to competing with the east coast team when he finally got his own out west. We all watched it happen."

"He needed guidance. He needed a father figure."

"My hand to God, that boy wants to call you _daddy_ in the worst way."

"Tony, don't be gross."

"Hey, don't be shaming. Anyway, it's not like you should be surprised. There are very few Avengers who haven't wanted to hit that at one point or another." Tony gestured at Steve.

"Not that many."

Tony held up a hand and ticked them off on his fingers. "Tigra, Jess J., Jess D., Jen, Natasha, Jan, Wanda -- I don't know about Carol, you two are the bro-est bros I've ever seen -- Hercules, Thor -- "

" _What._ "

"I'm pretty sure Dane would have if he was willing to admit he's a little queer, rather than barring that closet door. Eros, but Eros wants to fuck everything -- Pietro maybe? Maybe Pietro. And definitely Clint 'problem child' Barton."

"Oh, my God," Steve groaned.

"If it helps, most of them don't want to date you, they just want to know what a night with the pinnacle of human perfection would be like. And they know you'd be a gentleman."

"They don't _know_ that," Steve mumbled, face red.

"Why, are you a freak in the sack?"

"You're an asshole, Tony."

"Been called worse," Tony said with a shrug. "Look, if you want me to help you brainstorm how to put Clint and Jan on warning, I can, but I don't think there's much point. If you want my advice -- "

"Oh yes, please, do share the wisdom of your years," Steve drawled.

"Punk. If you want my advice, threesome."

"I fail to see how that's a punishment."

"Well, it's not really, as long as everyone's consenting, and I know you better than to think you wouldn't get a yes from both parties. But you'd have fun, which would at least make up for all this agita."

"I'm not rewarding them for poor judgement. Or myself for not stepping in sooner."

"Sooner than what? You're not the sex police."

Steve had a visual moment, where he pictured what exactly the sex police would look like -- the uniform, the night-vision goggles, the utility belt strung with condoms. He bit his lip to keep from laughing.

"What?" Tony asked. Steve made an undignified noise. "Oh my god, you're giggling, what?"

"The sex police!" Steve blurted, laughing. "It's like the newest ill-conceived superhero..."

Tony stared at him for a second and then burst out laughing too.

"Can't be worse than your Nomad costume," he said, and Steve laughed harder. "Halt! In the name of love!"

Steve flicked the autopilot, rested his forehead on the control yoke, and laughed himself sick. Tony swung his legs around so he was nominally watching the copilot controls, hands resting on his belly. When Steve stopped laughing, he looked at Tony and smiled.

"I'll sort it out," he said. "Thank you, Tony."

"Never let it be said I allowed a Steve Rogers sulk to go unmedicated," Tony said, standing and patting his shoulder. "Focus on driving. I'm going to get some shuteye before we hit Manhattan."

The doors slid open, and Steve heard a few curious murmurs from the Avengers as Tony took his seat again. If they did pump him for information, he didn't give it up; when Steve turned to check on them all, Tony was asleep, snoring lightly in his chair.

***

When they landed in Manhattan, Steve saw the faint look of regret Clint shot Jan before scurrying off to the range. Clint didn't do well cooped up in small places for long periods, and he always ran for the range after a long flight. Steve also saw the significant look Tony shot him, before Tony trotted off to occupy himself with domestic concerns (viz: find Jarvis, who would no doubt have baked cookies, and hog the cookies).

"Jan," Steve heard himself say, before he thought about it. "Can I have a word?"

"Sure," she replied, following him into the Assembly room. She shut the doors behind her. "Are we already in trouble?"

Steve sighed. "Let's just talk about it."

"Okay," she said warily. Steve leaned on the table, crossing his arms.

"You and Hank," he began, but she interrupted.

"Are over."

"Yes, I know," he said.

"...you do?"

"Yes. If Hank hadn't made it obvious, Tony clued me in."

"Oh, right," she said quietly.

"Jan, listen, I'm not mad you ended it with Hank. He's...he has been a friend, he's been better lately, but Tony made it clear the two of you weren't going anywhere for pretty good reasons."

"He didn't, uh, he didn't...again, you know -- "

"No, but he didn't apologize, either. He never has, has he?" Steve asked quietly.

"No. Not in any way where he actually took responsibility for what he did. He has a lot of reasons..."

"And I know how that goes," Steve said.

Jan blinked at him. "You do?"

"I can extrapolate. I guess they're a lot like what I used to hear from my father," he said.

"Oh -- Steve, I didn't know -- "

"It's in the past," he said, waving a hand. "See, the thing is, yes, it's good you ended it with Hank if it wasn't going anywhere, if you weren't happy. I just..." he sighed.

"It might have been better if it didn't end with him walking in on me and Clint?" she ventured.

"I'm going to talk to Clint about this, too, it's not just you," he said.

"We're both sorry."

"I know you are. But I told Clint if it hurt the team I'd have to involve myself, and..."

He broke off, because the look on her face was becoming depressingly familiar.

"You told Clint that," she said with a smile.

"Yes, Tony also informed me of how that sounded," he sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "I didn't mean it like that, I just can't make that kind of threat and not follow through -- Jan, seriously," he said, as she giggled.

"Sorry, sorry," she said. There was an awkward moment of silence while he worked out what else to say. He was just inhaling to say...something, when she blurted, "Would you be into that?"

He paused. "Into what, you and Clint and me?"

"Oh my God, forget I said anything," she said. "I can't believe I asked that."

"Why...did you ask?" he managed.

"Oh, I just, you know, you're _you_ ," she said. "I mean, half the Avengers would -- "

"Wait, that's true?" he asked. "I thought Tony was just pulling my leg."

"How can you not -- Steve, seriously, do you not notice, or are you just not into sex?" she asked, then clapped her hands over her mouth. "Stop me talking, please!"

"No, it's fine," he said hurriedly. "I uh. I like -- but it just never occurred to me, I mean, I'm kind of square and old-fashioned, I thought that wasn't what modern women, modern people want."

"Clint's had a crush on you for years," Jan said.

Steve rubbed his face. "Tony said that, too."

"Because if you were interested, I'm just saying, Clint would be all over it and I wouldn't um, exactly mind," she said.

Steve felt like there maybe wasn't quite enough air in the room. "I wouldn't want to hurt you and Clint. Separately or together."

"You know we're not really together, right?"

"No, I didn't."

"It's not serious. I needed a rebound," she said. "Clint knows that."

"I've never been with a man," Steve said.

"If you aren't -- "

"No, well, I don't know…there's just never been any offers, I suppose. And in the forties, ye gods..."

"Yeah, I can totally see that. Well, okay, so. I'm going to go hide in mortified shame now, feel free to forget we ever had this discussion," Jan said, and turned to leave.

"Jan, wait," Steve said. For one, he couldn't let their talk end like this, and...well, he wasn't seeing anyone at the moment, and a man did get lonely. Jan was lovely, and Clint was a handsome man. Plus there was a lot of history there, and Steve couldn't deny he'd had fantasies about holding Clint down -- usually to shut him up, but...

"Do you think it would work?" he asked shyly. She turned around. "I can't exactly put you two in detention or something. Tony said if I couldn't punish you at least I could, you know. Have some fun."

"Seriously?" she asked, voice rising.

"If Clint agreed. If you wanted. I'd be, uh, willing," he said.

Jan's mouth snapped shut. She considered him for an uncomfortable length of time.

"Let me think about it," she said.

"Sure. Of course. You need to be -- "

"Oh, no, I'm positive, I'm more than positive," she replied. "I just need to work out how to spring it on Clint."

"Ah," Steve managed. "Okay. Well. You know where to find me, I guess."

"Don't mention this to him, would you?"

"I need to talk to him too. But we'll keep this part between us."

"Thank you." Jan came forward slowly, like he might startle and bolt, and leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. "I'll call you."

Then she was gone.

Steve exhaled, adjusted himself slightly, and decided he should probably go burn off some excess energy in the gym.


	7. Ian Rogers and Anthony Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the comics, for a while, Steve had a son in another dimension named Ian. In Ultimates, Tony had a young carbon copy named Anthony. Both died; I thought they deserved better. (No firm ships though Steve/Tony if you squint.)

Ian Rogers was familiar with pain. As much as his father had tried to protect him, Z was a dangerous place to live, and even after the Phrox took them in, supplies could be scarce. He knew hunger-pain, and blister-pain; he'd once been gored (only a little!) by a hornbeast during a hunt, and his father's face had taken on that pinched, miserable look it always got when Ian was hurt. He'd been grazed by stray spears during hunts too, and there were the usual bumps and bruises of childhood play with the children of the Phrox.

So it wasn't the pain of the gunshot that made him slow to react, that tamped down his instincts; it was the sheer surprise of it. All his senses had been focused on his father, his whole being caught up in the struggle for identity -- _Ian or Leopold?_ \-- and he hadn't noticed the woman on the catwalk, or the gun in her hand. The bullet had hit him across the join of neck and shoulder, searing pain from nowhere, and when he tried to get up he lost his balance, tumbling, tumbling --

He heard his father scream as he fell, and what little part of him wasn't still taken up with _I am Ian, I am Ian, I am Ian_ was taken up with regret that his father would be hurt, sadness that Ian was the one to hurt him. The pain was lancing up his jaw and down his arm, but soon it would be over. He would not survive the plunge, he knew that.

Then the vertigo ended, and the roiling liquid below him turned hard and cold. He slammed down onto a sheet of metal from out of nowhere, and the pain ceased abruptly, replaced by the throb of impact injuries on his hands and knees.

He rolled over, instinctively ready to spring, and saw a figure standing above him, hands upraised.

"Easy!" the figure said, backing away. "Easy, I won't hurt you, promise."

"Who are you?" Ian demanded, one hand going to his throat. The skin was undamaged, smooth and warm, no wound to be felt. "Where did you take me?"

It wasn't even a man, he thought, as the figure stepped into the light. It was a little boy, a _human_ boy. Younger than Ian, too.

The boy offered his hand carefully, and Ian took it just as carefully and pulled himself to his feet. The boy wasn't even wearing armor, just short pants and a loose red jerkin. He had floppy dark hair and blue eyes. "You're Ian, huh?"

"How'd you know?" Ian demanded, looming over him. The boy put up his hands again.

"It's okay! I saved you!" he said.

Ian looked around. They were in a cave of some kind, filled with the sort of stuff that he'd seen in Zolandia, metal boxes with levers and lights. The mouth of the cave was glassed over, but Ian could see stars through it.

"Where am I?" he asked, blinking.

"It's kinda complicated," the other boy said.

"Uncomplicate it," Ian ordered.

The boy laughed. "Man, you sure are like your dad."

"You know my dad?"

"A version of him," the boy said, which made no sense. He gestured for Ian to sit in one of the chairs near the mouth of the cave. "Go ahead. Sit down."

The boy threw himself into one of the chairs, and Ian settled carefully on the edge of another.

"My name's Anthony," the boy said. "I'm nine. You're Ian and you're twelve. Your dad is Steve Rogers."

"How do you know so much?" Ian asked, leaning over to look through the glass. Space stretched out endlessly below him and he jerked back. Not a cave, then. 

"It's kind of what I do," Anthony said. "Look, it's okay, you're safe here. My dad is Tony Stark. Our dads are friends."

"Dad didn't say Tony Stark had a son," Ian said suspiciously. Anthony sighed and rubbed his face.

"He didn't. I told you it's complicated," he said. "You know how you grew up in Dimension Z?"

"Yeah..." Ian said, giving him a suspicious look.

"And...like, your dad, he grew up on Earth, and he wanted to go back."

"He talked about it sometimes," Ian agreed. He looked wistfully out at the stars. "Am I dead?"

"Jeez, no. Look. There are a lot of dimensions, okay? And some of 'em are sort of alike. Well, I come from a dimension _like_ Earth but not the same Earth, right? You get it?"

Ian stared at him.

"Okay, the point is, there was this really bad guy coming to get me, so I had to get out of there fast," Anthony continued. "Really fast. He killed Tony," he added sadly. "So I said, get me OUT of here, okay? But it took so much energy that I had some left over -- like, you can't just say, energy go away. I was gonna blow up if I didn't do something with it! And I looked around and there you were, about to die."

Ian touched his throat.

"Right! So I used up all that extra energy on you, and I saved you!" Anthony said, spreading his arms and smiling. "And now we're both safe. For now, anyway."

"For now?"

"Well, we can't just float around out here forever. I mean technically we could, but it'd get boring. Do you know how to play chess?" Anthony asked.

"I played checkers with my dad."

"Tony was going to teach me to play," Anthony mused. "Anyway. I put us in a spaceship. See that down there?" he added, pointing through the glass. Ian realized they were in a flying ship like Zola's, only wayyyyy higher up. He followed Anthony's gesture and saw a tiny blue dot far away.

"That's Earth," Anthony said.

"Really?" Ian asked. "It's kinda small."

"We're kinda far away," Anthony replied, sounding amused. "But the problem is it's not the right Earth. See, we have to find the right one, and there are like, trillions of them. So many I'd have to use a formula to express it all."

Ian gave him a mystified look. "You're a funny kid, you know that?"

"Yeah," Anthony said, unruffled. "We have to find the right one, where your dad is now. I'm pretty sure the one with your dad has a Tony Stark too."

"It does! Dad talked about him. They were best friends."

"He won't know who I am," Anthony said sadly. "But I figure, if I get you back to your dad, and you say we're friends..."

"Ohhh," Ian said, nodding. "Yeah. One time, I got lost in the forest near our cave and one of the Phrox came and found me, and when he brought me home Dad gave him three hornbeast hides in gratitude."

"I'd rather have cash, but point taken," Anthony said.

"But if there are so many Earths, how do we find the right one?" Ian asked.

"It'll take a while. But as long as we're up here I got plenty of food and stuff to do," Anthony replied. "You ever play video games?"

"Play what?"

Anthony grinned.

***

Time didn't pass the same way on the spaceship as it did in Dimension Z. No suns or moons ever rose or set, and it never rained. Anthony taught him to tell time based on a big grid of numbers and a smaller panel that showed constantly moving ones. Each day, Ian carefully marked off a space on the grid, and then he and Anthony would eat and spend the day looking for his dad.

It was tiresome work. Anthony made the little blue Earth jump around beneath them, a different Earth every time, and then he'd open a little window in his computer and they'd look in on Ian's dad. Sometimes Ian would say no; there were some he could just tell weren't his dad. Sometimes Anthony would check something and then _he'd_ say no, without an explanation, but Ian trusted him.

They could look at plenty in an hour, but they got bored often and then Anthony would show him video games, or cartoons, or they'd play tag or hide and seek in the space ship.

"Where'd you get this space ship thing, anyway?" Ian asked one night, as they lay in their bunk beds in the little room off the main control room. The blankets were soft, and the bouncy thing he slept on took some getting used to, but he liked it, more or less. Anthony popped his head down from the top bunk.

"I made it, from designs Tony had in his head," he said. "I used to live in Tony's head."

"My dad had a person living in his chest," Ian said.

"Not quite like that. Also I wasn't super-evil like Zola."

"Oh." Ian thought about it. "How'd you get out?"

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Okay. How much longer do you think it'll be before we find my dad? It's been twelve days already."

"Shouldn't be much longer. I used your biosignature to find a small subset of Earths that are probably right."

"English, please," Ian singsonged.

"I uh. Looked at you and looked for Earths that would have people like your dad."

"But you know he's not my _real_ dad."

"Of course he is."

"Not like blood dad though."

Anthony blew air through his lips. "Who cares about that stuff? He took care of you, didn't he?"

"Yeah..."

"Then he's your real dad and Zola can go blow himself."

Ian giggled. "Where'd you learn language like that?"

"Tony."

"Is he nice?"

"Course he is," Anthony said, and then added, "Was," softly.

"You think this other Tony will be?"

"I hope so. I think he must be nice in pretty much every dimension. Well, most of them." Anthony settled on the top bunk again. "The ones worth visiting. We'll find the right one soon, I'm sure of it."

"Good. I like you and all, Anthony, but I'm gettin' bored with video games."

***

They found it on day fourteen, though they almost cruised right past it.

"Nope, not that one," Ian said confidently, looking at an Earth where his father was a teeny tiny man with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. "Not that one neither," he said, looking at another where Dad was wearing spiky armor.

"Can't be this one," Anthony said, and was about to flick onward when Ian grabbed his arm.

"Stop!" he said. Anthony looked up at him. "Why can't it be that one?"

"The numbers don't match your biosignature," he said.

"But look!" Ian pointed at his father. So clearly his father! His beard was gone and his hair was washed and smoothed down more than usual, but he could tell -- he just _knew_. His heart clenched. "That's my dad!"

"Can't be," Anthony argued. "The numbers aren't right."

"Look again," Ian commanded. "What's wrong with the numbers?"

"The signature's close, but it's not..." Anthony trailed off. "Wait, lemme check something."

He did something complicated with the screen they were looking at, then sat back and blinked.

"Well, hell," he said, in his high nine-year-old voice. "That's the one."

"That's my dad! I knew it!" Ian yelled, wrapping his arms around Anthony's neck. He watched, entranced, as his father sipped from a fancy white cup of some kind. He was sitting at a table, jaw resting on his fist, watching other people talk -- there was Beast, Ian recognized him from the paintings, and a blond man he thought might be Hawkeye, and a man in a red suit that was undoubtedly Falcon. Dad had always said Falcon was his brother the same way the Phrox children were Ian's brothers and sisters -- not by birth but because there wasn't any other word for how close people could be.

Dad looked sad. Ian didn't think anyone else noticed, or maybe they were just being nice.

"How do we get there?" Ian asked.

Anthony closed the window and Ian almost yelped in disappointment.

"We're gonna fly down in the spaceship," he said cheerfully. There was a vibration under Ian's feet, and then a roar, and the whole ship tilted on its end but he didn't fall over, even though the stars were wheeling through the glass. They were pointing straight at the little blue Earth now, and even as Ian watched it got bigger and bigger until the blue and white swirls filled their vision.

"Don't distract me," Anthony said, even as Ian was opening his mouth to point out that this was getting kind of scary. With a thump, the little control room burst free of the rest of the ship, leaving it behind, and Ian just held on and watched as blue turned to green turned to grey turned red briefly and then --

Then they were under a blue sky, just like Dad had said it would be, and they were soaring over a city that would put even the best of Zolandia to shame.

"What IS this?" Ian asked.

Anthony glanced at him and laughed. "Manhattan, stupid."

"Look at all the -- how are we going to find Dad in all this?"

Anthony pointed straight ahead. "He's in there."

Ian stared hard at the little building amid the much taller ones, trying not to even blink as Anthony brought them down low. There was a thud as the ship touched ground. Anthony grabbed his hand and pulled him along, down a hallway Ian hadn't been through before and --

White sunlight scattered over green grass through a hole in the ship, and Ian caught his breath. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Behind them, the ship shimmered and vanished.

"Come on, they don't know we're here yet, I blocked their sensors," Anthony said, dragging him through the warmth of an Earth day cycle. Ian stared at everything, from the neatly built house before them to the white clouds in the blue sky. A little grey animal ran past them as they headed for the house. There was game here too, then; good.

Anthony led him confidently up a flight of stairs and pushed open a big door. Ian figured Anthony somehow knew where he was going -- he usually seemed to, even in video games -- and followed until Anthony drew up short, and voices could be heard from nearby.

" -- know what she's going to do with him when he gets older, but I guess he does live at a school," a female voice said.

"Is he a mutant?" someone else asked. Ian padded up silently behind Anthony and they both stood in the doorway, peering in.

"I don't think so, but that hardly matters, a school's a school."

"It's a school for mutants, I think it might matter a little."

"She should make sure he's legally protected," another voice said, and that was Dad, standing at a high counter, pouring liquid out of the fancy cup. "Get the adoption sorted out."

"Might be a problem, people get snakey about mutants adopting kids," someone said, joining Dad at the counter. Ian's breath caught, and he could feel Anthony tense. That was clearly Tony Stark, down to the neat little goatee. They watched as he bumped his shoulder against Dad's, giving him a look.

"All the more reason to talk to Jubilee now and make sure Shogo -- " his Dad said, but he was turning, and his eye caught both of them in the doorway.

Before Ian could speak, the cup had slipped out of Dad's hand and crashed to the floor. Tony Stark looked up, and Ian could see other people around the table looking too.

"What in the f -- " Tony Stark started to say, but Dad interrupted him with a soft, "Ian?"

"Dad," Ian said, but he couldn't move, he was suddenly terrified of all these people and Dad looked so pale --

"Oh my god," Dad said, and Ian leapt for him just as Dad slid forward onto his knees, arms going around Ian's shoulders so tight he might smother. Ian just buried his face in Dad's neck and trembled.

"My boy, oh my god," Dad was saying into his hair, and Dad was shaking too, Ian could feel it. "Ian, I'm so sorry -- "

"It's okay," Ian said, because he thought Dad might be crying and Dad never cried. He heard someone clear their throat, and Dad released him, only to grab him again by the arms, eyes scanning his face, searching for something.

"It's you," Dad said.

"Yeah," Ian answered, and grinned.

"Uh, someone want to clue me in?" a voice said in the background. Ian looked up; it was the blond man, Hawkeye. "Strange children in the mansion, Steve having nervous breakdown, I'm not comfortable with this."

"Steve," Tony Stark said. "Who's the kid?"

Dad rubbed a thumb over Ian's face, smiling. "This is Ian," he said. "He's my son."

There was a second crash; Ian saw that Falcon had knocked his cup over. Everyone was staring.

"I brought a friend!" Ian said, remembering his manners and that this was going to be something of a delicate negotiation. He squirmed out of Dad's grip and went to the doorway. Anthony was peering around the edge, watching everything with curious eyes but still mostly hidden. "Come on," Ian said, pulling on his arm. Anthony was suddenly shy.

"Who's this?" Dad asked.

"This is Anthony, he saved me," Ian said, dragging Anthony into the room. "He's from another Earth, there are a _lot_ of them it turns out."

"You don't say," said Beast, who was a lot bigger and furrier and scarier in person. Ian casually edged between Anthony and him as he stood up from the table.

"It's all right," Dad said, holding out a hand. "C'mere, Anthony, I'm Steve."

"Steve Rogers, Captain America," Anthony said with a jerky nod. "And you're Hawkeye and Falcon and I don't know you, sir," he added to Beast. "And you're Tony Stark," he finished, gazing at Tony, who was looking dismayed.

"How did you come to be here, young man?" Beast asked. "If you're from another Earth."

"It's -- "

"Complicated," Ian finished for Anthony, grinning at him.

"I can...it might be easier if I just..." Anthony looked back at Tony, eyes narrowing in concentration.

Ian was about to ask if maybe they could sit down, but suddenly Tony bellowed in pain and dropped like a sack of bones. Ian stared in horror as the man curled up, clutching his head, but he only had a second before Dad was on his feet and had whipped Ian behind him.

"I got the kid!" someone yelled, and Ian saw Hawkeye diving for Anthony, while Falcon knelt over Tony.

"Don't you touch him!" Ian shouted, squirming away from Dad to leap for Hawkeye, but before he could sink his teeth into any vulnerable flesh, Hawkeye had grabbed Anthony. Anthony screamed and yellow light burst everywhere for a minute.

Ian rubbed his eyes and found Anthony curled up in the corner of the room, Hawkeye lying under a pile of dust in another, and Beast and Falcon both blocking Tony with their bodies.

"What'd you do that for?" he yelled, running to Anthony, heedless of his father's grab for his jerkin. He dropped down next to his friend and pulled him into his arms, glaring at everyone else in the room. "He's littler than you, leave him alone!"

"Ian, come here," Dad ordered, and Ian snarled. In the background, people were yelling at each other, and Anthony was hiding against his arm, and Beast was getting up, teeth bared --

"EVERYONE SETTLE THE GOD DAMN HELL DOWN," a new voice yelled, and silence descended on the room. Ian saw a short man built like a broad stone well step into the kitchen, sharp blades emerging from his knuckles.

Wolverine, he thought, awed. That was Wolverine, from the painting, much smaller than most of the others, but -- but you could feel the danger in him, the coiled violence waiting to spring out, like Dad on a hunt. Wolverine, Dad's soldier-friend, the fiercest of all of them.

"Hank," Dad snapped, not looking away from Ian.

"He's fine," Beast said, helping Tony up to sitting. "Tony?"

"He tried to activate Extremis," Tony said, eyes slowly focusing on Ian and Anthony. "Took me by surprise, that's all."

"Hawkeye?"

"Aw, wall," Hawkeye groaned, rolling to his knees.

"What kind of circus are we running today?" Wolverine asked. "Who're the kids?"

"I'll cut you if you come near him," Ian warned. Wolverine gave him a toothy grin.

"I like this one," he said. "What's your name, gutsy?"

"Ian Rogers," Ian snapped.

Wolverine turned to Dad. "Didn't know you had it in you, Cap."

"Long story," Dad said. "Ian, come here right now."

"No," Ian said.

"It's okay, I'm fine," Tony said in the background, getting to his feet. "Cap, stand down."

"You, get him out of here," Wolverine said, pointing to Beast and then to Hawkeye. "Falcon, go with them. Give the kids some breathing room."

"Cap?" Falcon asked. Dad looked really angry.

"Go," he said. "We'll sort this out."

Ian watched the others hold some kind of conference without talking. Tony had his hand on Dad's arm, looked like half to restrain him and half to hold himself up. After a minute, Wolverine looked away from them and back at Ian.

"Nobody's gonna hurt you or your pal," Wolverine said. "My name's -- "

"Wolverine, I know," Ian replied. The man glanced at Dad, eyebrow raising, and then turned back to them.

"Well, I was gonna say Logan, but whatever," he said. "I'm a teacher at a school for mutants. Your friend there, he a mutant?"

"No," Ian said, though maybe he was, it wasn't like Ian knew.

"Can I come over there? Look, claws in," Logan said, and sheathed the claws back into his arms. It was pretty cool, Ian had to admit. "Just to talk a little, all right?"

Ian looked to Dad, who nodded.

"Okay," he said, letting go of Anthony's shoulders. Anthony maintained a death grip on his arm. "This is Anthony."

Logan crouched in front of them, which Ian appreciated, since it got them nearly on eye level.

"Sometimes when kids get scared they throw a punch or two they don't mean to," he said, keeping his eyes on Anthony, who was staring up at him silently. Ian could see now, under the surface -- under the violence -- a certain kindness. Like a man who knew how to talk to wild animals because he knew about being one. "You get grabbed by some stranger, it's natural to kick a little, right?"

Anthony nodded.

"Why'd Hawkeye grab you, kid?"

"I didn't mean to," Anthony whispered. "I thought -- I thought we could talk that way."

"He tried to access Extremis," Tony said. "I might have had a moment."

"I'm _sorry_ ," Anthony mumbled.

"It's okay, kid, nobody blames you," Logan said. "How'd you know how to get into Stark's head?"

"We used to," Anthony said.

"We?"

" _My_ Tony and me. We used to talk like that."

"He's from an alternate Earth," Tony said.

"So you're Ian Rogers," Logan said. Ian nodded. "And you're...Anthony Stark Junior?"

Anthony shook his head. "Just Anthony," he said.

"You're not his kid? Because I gotta tell you, you have a look," Logan said, and Anthony smiled.

"I came from Antonio Stark," he said. "Iron Man, from my world. But he's not my dad. More like..." his mouth twisted. "S'hard to explain without sounding like a creep."

Logan nodded. "Well, we got a few creeps around here, I wouldn't worry. You two hungry?"

Anthony nodded. Ian glanced at him and then nodded too. Logan stood up.

"C'mon over to the table. We gotta have some sandwiches or something around here."

***

Steve knew that basically everyone who had ever met Logan had been either skeptical or deeply amused when they found out he was the headmaster of a school, in charge of molding young mutant minds. Steve had been one of the very few non-mutants to approve of it, but then Steve had known Logan a lot longer than most people, and he'd seen him in war. He'd seen Logan carrying kids out of death camps during the war, and he knew the man would be a good teacher. He'd been smug about how right he was when the Jean Grey School was a success.

Now, watching Logan coax his son and this strange boy Anthony to the table, he was reminded of the war. Not that he didn't want to surge forward, snatch Ian up, and carry him somewhere safe, but where was safer than here?

When Ian sat down at the table, Steve pulled his chair around and sat next to him, close enough to sling one arm around Ian's shoulders. Ian pulled Anthony to sit on his other side, and Steve smiled a little at how warily Tony circled the table to sit across from them. Logan went to the doorway, had a quick conference with Hank, and then stood aside so Jarvis could enter.

"Ah," Jarvis said, taking in the scene calmly. "I'll make cocoa."

"And sandwiches," Anthony said, so imperiously that Jarvis smiled.

"Of course, young sir. Peanut butter, ham, or cheese?"

"Yes," Anthony agreed. Steve noticed Ian was holding his hand under the table.

"Now," Logan said, settling in at the head of the table, "I got here late. What's the story with the two'a you?"

"I think it probably starts with me," Steve said. "Ian's my son."

"Yeah, I guessed that," Logan drawled.

"Remember when I went off-grid a few weeks ago?" Steve asked. Logan nodded. "I ended up in an alternate dimension."

Tony's hands thunked to the table. "Excuse me?"

"It was only two weeks, here," Steve continued, determined to get through this, because he had frankly been dreading telling Tony about it. "About thirteen years, over there. It's some pocket place Zola set up. The whole thing was a trap. Look, long story short, I ended up in one of his godforsaken labs. There was a baby there."

Tony sighed. "You took the kid."

"You make it sound like you wouldn't have," Steve retorted. Tony held up his hands defensively. "Yes, I took Ian and I got the heck out of there. I raised Ian -- "

"Tell 'em about the Phrox," Ian whispered.

"I'm trying to be brief," Steve whispered back. "I will, later, okay?"

"Okay," Ian said, looking stubborn. Steve reflected that perhaps if he had wanted a more obedient son, he shouldn't have raised Ian to be just like himself.

"There was a battle," Steve said, eliding the details -- the struggle with Zola, Jet, Ian's terrible brainwashing. "Ian and I were on a catwalk. Sharon finally made it through and she didn't understand what was going on -- "

His throat closed up. The last few weeks had been the hardest of his life, even harder than waking up from the ice. Ian was gone, and the dark, howling hole where his son had been was slowly crushing him; Sharon was gone too, and he wasn't even sure if he could have...she had _shot_ his _son_...

"She shot me," Ian said calmly. Steve looked down at him. "I fell off the catwalk."

"I thought you'd died," Steve said softly.

"It's okay though, I didn't," Ian replied, like it wasn't the moment when Steve's heart had been ripped from his chest.

He caught Logan's expression in the second before the man schooled it. Logan had a son, he remembered. Akihiro, who had died at Logan's hands. He wondered how the man lived with the pain.

"So how is it, not that I'm not happy to meetcha, kid, but how is it you're sitting here now?" Logan asked, as Jarvis put sandwiches down in front of the two boys. Anthony picked up a ham sandwich and tore into it gleefully. Ian inspected his, glanced at Anthony, and then carefully nibbled the corner of a cheese sandwich. They'd had cheese, in the caves, or something like it, but they hadn't had the right kind of grains to make good bread, despite Steve's attempts.

"Anthony saved me," Ian said. "It had to do with energy and stuff."

Logan looked at Anthony. "Guess it's your turn."

Anthony swallowed his food and took a big sip of the cocoa Jarvis had just set down (Steve saw Ian eyeball his, do likewise, and then gulp it like it might run away).

"I'm not really a little kid," he said quietly. Tony leaned forward, tilting his head, and Steve glanced at him with a quick shake -- _whatever you're about to say, don't_. Anthony continued, apparently oblivious. "I mean. When Tony met me, he made me look this way. It was how he could visualize me, so we could talk. But really I'm a...a thing, I'm not a person."

"Are so," Ian said. Anthony looked discontented.

"There's a really bad man," he continued. "He attacked my...my Tony and killed him to try and get to me. But I ran..."

He sat up straighter and looked dead on at Tony and said, "I utilized an extreme percentage of dark cosmic energy to temporarily breach meta-space and manifest matter long enough to escape."

Tony nodded. "Not that creepy, I've seen it happen."

Steve gave Tony a confused look. Logan was looking pretty baffled as well. Tony waved it off.

"I'm following him, you don't have to," he said. "Those are some extremely fine calculations, Anthony. How'd you get them precise enough?"

"I didn't. There was a surplus when I reached null-plateau."

"Jesus, kid, you could have swiss-cheesed the multiverse."

"I _know_ that," Anthony said, sounding offended. "I didn't have much time!"

"So how'd you level off the formula?"

Anthony jerked a thumb at Ian. "I looked for the first loose string."

Steve tugged Ian closer, hand tight on his thin shoulder.

"He had just about the right amount of meta-space reach and...I mean, you know. He's a kid too," Anthony said. "So I grabbed him and brought him to me. Besides, I knew if I saved him _someone_ would be grateful and it's not easy being an anthropomorphic nine year old on the other end of null-plateau."

"I am grateful," Steve said, over Ian's head. "I'm sorry about earlier."

"It's okay," Anthony replied, and took another huge bite of a sandwich. "Ian's cool anyhow."

"The coolest," Steve said, and Ian rolled his eyes. So did Tony. "We'll make sure you're looked after, Anthony."

"Told you," Anthony said to Ian, who grinned. "I can do lots of stuff, too, I'm useful. I'm good with computers and really great with math."

"I'm getting that," Tony said. "For now I think the grownups need to talk."

Anthony looked supremely unimpressed.

"Come on, kid, you're both worn out," Steve said, pushing his chair back. "We'll find you rooms in the mansion, you can get some shuteye."

"I'm not tired," Ian answered, but he had that _Yes I am tired_ tone to his voice. Steve wanted to hug him and never, ever let him out of his sight.

"Well, then you'll get a few minutes of quiet," he said firmly. "Come on. Anthony, you too."

"Can Anthony stay with me?" Ian asked, looking up at Steve.

"Sure," Steve said, though he was one hundred percent worried about just what Anthony was capable of. "Let's go now, we'll get you two set up."

As they left, he heard Tony mutter "This is super-weird," to Logan.

The mansion had plenty of guest rooms for Avengers who had their own places but sometimes needed a bed for the night; he'd done it often enough himself, and was staying there now while he...while he pulled himself together, while he recovered from his losses. The room next to his was empty, and it had a bed big enough for an underfed twelve-year-old and a nine-year-old of uncertain origin. There wasn't much he could do about pyjamas at this stage, but Anthony crawled under the blankets without even taking his shirt off, and Ian's clothes were...not what he'd been wearing the last time they'd seen each other.

"Anthony gave me this jerkin," Ian said, noticing Steve's look. "He really is okay, you know."

"I saw you die three weeks ago, Ian," Steve replied. "I'm just a little edgy."

"It's fine, Dad. We're on Earth, like you said we would be," Ian said. "Tomorrow can you show me everything? I want to meet everyone."

"Tomorrow," Steve said firmly. Ian climbed into bed; Anthony looked like he was already asleep, bunched in a ball and hogging the blankets. Typical Stark, Steve thought, amused. Ian curled up with his back against Anthony, and Steve sat down by the side of the bed, leaning on it with his arms.

"When you fell, I was so sad," he said quietly, stroking Ian's hair. "I thought I'd never get to see you again. Since then I've been lost. I've never been so lost. And now you're here, and it makes me so happy it hurts. You are absolutely the best thing that ever happened to me, son."

"I love you, Dad."

"I love you too. More than you will ever know," Steve said, and kissed him on the forehead. "Sleep. I'll be nearby."

He only left once he was sure Ian was asleep, and then he lingered in the doorway a long time, watching. It wasn't until Jarvis appeared in the hallway that he closed the door and turned away.

"Headmaster Logan explained the situation. Anticipating the young masters may be here some time, I took the liberty of ordering clothing," Jarvis said. "It should arrive tomorrow morning."

"Thank you," Steve said. "Can we see about getting 'em some beds?"

"Of course. May I say, Captain," Jarvis added, looking awkward -- he always did when things were personal. "We have all been aware, that is to say it was difficult not to notice, that you have been troubled recently."

"Yeah," Steve agreed. "Guess it wasn't hard to tell."

"I am sure once all the details are known, we will all be terribly glad to welcome Master Ian to his new home," Jarvis continued. "Master Anthony too, of course. If they have any needs, please don't hesitate to tell me."

"I'll make sure they know," Steve said. "Ian's not used to surplus. If he's hungry, make sure he eats as much as he can. He needs to understand he's not taking resources from someone else if he eats his fill."

"My pleasure."

"I thought it might be," Steve said with a grin. "Can you point me to Tony? I'm guessing he's having fits."

"Mr. Stark is in the solarium. He has reassured the others that there will be no repeat of the incident with Agent Barton."

"Okay. Thank you, Jarvis."

"A pleasure to serve, Captain," Jarvis said, and continued on his way. Steve went to the solarium, to find the others and explain what had happened.

***

When Ian woke, the room was dark. There were cloth shades drawn over the window nearby, but when he climbed out of bed (careful not to wake Anthony) and pushed them aside the world outside was dark too. Nighttime. Tomorrow hadn't come yet.

He was thirsty, and he wanted to relieve himself. Anthony had instructed him in the mysteries of the Bathroom, which was much nicer than the latrine pits they'd had in Z, but he wasn't sure where they'd be in a fancy place like this. Still, even in the caverns the water springs were usually easy to find, and the outdoors was never far away.

He slipped through the door of the room and into the dim hallway. The first door he passed was half-open, and when he peered inside he could see his father sleeping.

He wound his way back to the first room they'd been in, the one with the food in it, and worked out how to make the water come from the tap without much effort. He filled one of the fancy cups with water, drained it, and then set it carefully next to the basin.

There was a tall door made completely of glass nearby, and it opened to the outside. Ian took a chance, slipped through, and emptied his bladder on a tree.

He was usually pretty good with directions, but there were so many hallways and they all looked alike. He got a little lost, but he was nearly sure he'd found the right hall again when he stumbled into a big room full of fancy chairs and the artificial lights that were everywhere around here.

There was a man sitting in one of the chairs, reading. Logan, the Wolverine, the soldier. Ian studied him. Small to be a soldier, but he did have those blades in his hands.

"Might as well come in, kid," the man called, and Ian startled. "No use gawping in doorways."

"Sorry, sir," Ian said, coming forward. "I got lost."

"Not hard to do. This place is huge. Lookin' for your dad?"

"No, I saw him, he's sleeping." Ian stood next to the wide chair. Logan took up only part of it.

"Take a load off," the man said, pointing to the cushion next to him. Ian sat, drawing his legs up and crossing them, facing Logan. "Tired?"

"No, sir."

Logan gave him a toothy grin. "You can drop the sir."

Ian nodded, wide-eyed. "Is it true you were a soldier with my dad?" he blurted.

"Yep. Finest man I ever fought with. Long time ago now. He tell you about all of us, huh?"

"Yeah. He did pictures of you too, on the cave walls. Thor and Spider-man and Beast and Rogue and Director Nicholas Fury and Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, and Dane the Black Knight and Professor Xavier, Reed Richards and Sue and Johnny Storm and Ben Grimm and Jarvis too. But you were in the best painting," he added.

"The best one?"

"Yep. You and Sam Wilson, Carol Danvers, Tony Stark, Janet van Dyne, T'Challa, and my dad."

That earned him another smile. "Exalted company."

"That's what Dad said!"

"Yeah, I know him pretty well." Logan seemed to be considering Ian. "Heck of a change for you, kid, ain't it?"

"Guess so. I don't care though. Dad always said we'd get to Earth. And I got Anthony to look after."

"He seems pretty good at looking after himself."

"Maybe. But he's little and nobody trusts him."

"I know the feeling."

Ian laughed. Logan set his book aside, leaning forward.

"This world's pretty nice," he said. "But it ain't perfect, Ian. 'Specially for someone ain't used to it. Your pa's great, but he ain't the easiest man in the world to talk to either."

Ian nodded. It was fair enough.

"You get confused, you feel like you can't talk to your pa, you come see me, okay? There's nothin' I haven't heard a hundred times, believe me."

"Dad said you were a teacher for children."

"Do my best to be."

"Are there lots of other human children on this world?"

Logan let out a chuckle. "More than you'd believe, probably."

"Can I meet them?"

"Maybe in a bit, if your dad says yes. Meantime, if you want to talk to me, ask Jarvis to call me up, right?"

"Yes, s -- Logan," Ian said.

"Let's get you back to bed before your dad wakes up and rouses the whole house looking for you," Logan said.

"I'm not sleepy."

"Can you read?" Logan asked. Ian blew air through his lips derisively.

"Dad taught me."

"Here you go, then. Put on a light and tackle this," Logan said, taking a book down from the shelf. So many books! Back in Z, Dad had made a few -- hand bound with rough paper, written in with charcoal -- but these had smooth paper and amazingly even handwriting.

"What's it about?" he asked. The cover had an drawing of a map on it and two words: _The Hobbit_.

"It's about a little hairy guy who's a hero," Logan said.

***

Steve had put out the call for a general Avengers assembly the next morning, but it was hardly necessary. The superhero gossip network was efficient, and word of Ian Rogers and Anthony, the boy who looked like Tony, had already spread coast-to-coast. Heroes who weren't even on the Avengers were calling to say they'd be there, and Natasha had told him she'd been asked to represent SHIELD at the meeting.

It wasn't what Steve would have wanted, but he had to make sure the story got out properly and anyway, Ian and Anthony were solid kids. They'd weather the assembly fine, he was sure.

He'd walked into their bedroom early that morning to find Anthony still curled up in the same spot. Ian was asleep sitting up, back against the headboard, a light on next to the bed and a book discarded nearby. Apparently he'd gone exploring at some point in the night, which made Steve's chest clench uncomfortably. He'd need to tell him soon about safety in the mansion and outside of it. The second the bad guys got wind of Steve's new Achilles heel, Ian would be a target.

The boys inhaled breakfast, watched over by himself, Jarvis, and Hank McCoy. It took Ian a while to warm up to Hank, but Anthony had chattered fearlessly with him about math well above Steve's head. Hank was good with kids -- the precocious ones at least. Ian, meanwhile, had sat silently at Steve's elbow and eaten his body weight in bacon once he was assured they weren't going to run out of it.

Tony had made himself scarce. Steve wasn't surprised. His sole contribution to the question of Anthony had been "What the hell do we do with him?" which had been...well, typical Tony, but less confrontational than fearful. It was one thing to grab a kid from a supervillain and get years to practice getting fatherhood right. It was another to be suddenly confronted with a nine-year-old son. Steve assumed he was surrogate dad until Tony got his head together. It wasn't as though he minded; two kids weren't that much more trouble than one.

The assembly room of the mansion hardly held everyone who was coming, and Steve felt the usual swell of pride (chased with a hint of anxiety) when he looked them all over. Hard to be a leader of so many; never a job he'd particularly put himself up for, but one people always assumed was his. Even the ones who'd been bitterly against him during the recent Phoenix unpleasantness looked to him in times like these. Some of the newer heroes he'd barely known when he went into Dimension Z. He was still struggling to remember their names, which made him feel like a heel.

Still, chin up, face forward. It was what he'd always done.

Anthony and Ian followed him into the assembly room, and the noise of casual conversation died down quickly. Steve glanced down to check on the boys and saw Anthony putting on a brave face. Ian was eagerly looking around, obviously pairing up the real people in the room with the bedtime stories he'd heard about them. Anthony's gaze drifted to the ceiling, where Jessica and Peter were casually sitting upside-down.

"Folks," Steve said, as the silence stretched out. "Guess you all know why you're here. We have some guests at the mansion, and it's time I introduced you to them. Boys," he added, quieter, and Ian stepped in front of him, leading Anthony along by the hand. "This is Ian Rogers," he said, resting a hand on his son's shoulder. "It's a long story, and it'll be filed with SHIELD in a few days, so those of you with access can read it there, and those of you without, well, find a buddy," he said, and there was quiet laughter around the room. "Ian is my son. He was raised in a separate dimension -- I know," he said, as murmurs rose up. "Now you all should be used to this kind of thing by now, there's nobody in this room who doesn't know someone from another dimension. He's new to Earth and a lot of Earth customs, so we'd both appreciate it if you went easy on us during this transition. And this is Anthony," he continued, resting his other hand on Anthony's messy dark hair. "As near as we can work out, Anthony is a genetic copy of our Tony Stark, from an alternate universe rather than a separate dimension."

Heads turned, seeking Tony out; Tony was leaning against one of the windows, arms crossed, but he lifted his head and gave them all a sardonic little wave. Steve saw Anthony gazing at him, face blank.

"Hank and Tony know more about the physics of all this, so if you're curious about the distinction between dimension and universe, have a word with them. Anthony may know some of you, and he may know different versions of some of you, so think carefully before you ask about that."

Some of the more scientifically-minded heroes were already leaning towards Hank, who made shushing gestures at them, clearly annoyed by their rudeness.

"Natasha," Steve said, and Natasha nodded. "They'll need paperwork. Can you arrange it?"

"Of course," she said, even as Anthony tugged on Steve's sleeve. He leaned down.

"Can you trust her?" Anthony whispered.

"I promise, we can," Steve replied. He straightened. "I'd like to keep this news from getting out, but I know that's not going to last forever. _Try_ to be as discreet as possible."

He saw nods around the room. Hopefully nobody was about to run off to Hydra or AIM or god knew who and report on them.

"Boys, go ahead and sit down," Steve said to them quietly. Ian dragged Anthony over to where Logan was sitting, and Logan stood up, freeing his chair for them. Steve nodded his appreciation.

"Ian and Anthony both have some adjusting to do. This is going to mean a leave of absence for me, one I'm pleased to take in this case. It'll be at least six months, possibly up to a year, though of course I'll be on call if we have an all-hands summons. I'll be speaking to the current Avengers roster about handing off duties, and possibly to one or two of you about filling the uniform in my absence."

Heads turned towards Bucky. Bucky was openly staring at the kids; it took him a second to notice the change in focus.

"Aw, _hell_ no," he said. "I'm not getting suckered into that gig again."

Steve grinned. "Don't worry, Buck, you didn't make the shortlist this time," he said. Bucky looked relieved. "All right, I think that covers everything. Current Avengers, we'll discuss my leave at the usual weekly meeting. Thank you all for your understanding."

As people began to file out, heading for the kitchen where Jarvis had doughnuts and coffee waiting, Scott Lang sidled up to Steve.

"Hey," he said. "You got some smart-looking kids there."

Steve grinned. "Recruiting already?"

"Just offering. There's always room at the Foundation for the kids of Avengers."

"I saw 'em first," Logan said from behind them.

"And I'm sure the Jean Grey School would be a fine place for them, but -- "

"But nothin'."

"They aren't mutants, Logan." Scott turned to Steve. "Are they?"

"Maybe I'm branching out," Logan said.

"As flattering as it is to have Ant Man and Wolverine in a slapfight over my boy, he won't be registering anywhere for a while," Steve said. "Anthony's going to be a special case anyway. When they're ready to start formal schooling, I'm sure we'll sit down with some pamphlets or whatever you two do these days and decide what's best for them."

He saw Tony lingering near the door, and did his best to convey _if you leave this room I will find you and shout at you._ Tony rolled his eyes and nodded.

"Why don't you two go get some doughnuts and argue about who spends more time traumatizing the youth of tomorrow?" he suggested. "I got two kids to settle."

"I'll send you some material," Scott said, but at least he and Logan left, bickering as they went. Steve started to turn towards Tony, then stopped when he saw Clint approaching.

"Hey," Clint said, leaning against the table next to Anthony. Anthony's eyes narrowed. "No hard feelings, kid, right?"

Ian nudged Anthony.

"No hard feelings," Anthony said grudgingly. Clint put out his hand, and Steve smiled as they shook on it. "Sorry I pushed you into a wall."

"Wasn't the first time. Won't be the last. Seeya round," Clint said, and gave Steve a salute as he left. Tony brushed past him, heading for Steve, and leaned in.

"What the hell do we do now?" he asked in a whisper, in Steve's ear. His back was to the boys, who were thumb-wrestling.

"I have a plan," Steve answered.

"I usually hate your plans," Tony said.

"That's because you refuse to acknowledge my superiority as a tactician," Steve said.

"I don't know why we're even friends," Tony replied, but when Steve gave him a gentle shove he turned and put on a smile.

"So," Steve said, joining the boys at the table. "That went pretty well."

"You know a lot of people in funny costumes," Ian said, still trying to out-thumb Anthony. "Even more than I thought."

He pinned Anthony's thumb and made a triumphant noise, but Anthony had gone still, looking up at Tony.

"Hiya," Tony said awkwardly.

"Hi," Anthony replied.

"Tony's going to give us a tour of the mansion," Steve said. "Both of you need to learn you way around, and I think Anthony might like to see the labs. We'll pick you out some bedrooms and this afternoon we'll go out and see the city a little, if you like."

"We want to share a room," Ian said. Anthony nodded sharply. "We had bunk beds before."

"We have plenty of rooms," Tony said.

"Before?" Steve asked.

"But we want to share," Ian insisted, ignoring him. "We want the room we had, only with bunk beds."

"That's fine," Steve said. "I'm sure Jarvis can set that up."

"Yeah, easy," Tony said. "I'll go let him know."

Steve grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. "After the tour."

"Right. The tour," Tony repeated. "Uh. You want to start at the top and work our way down?"

***

The roof of Avengers Mansion had once been the launching pad for the quinjets, but those were at Stark Tower now; the mansion wasn't really HQ as much as it was a barracks, which Steve felt at least made it safer for the kids. The jet bay had been refitted as a swimming pool, complete with a spread of grass nearby and a couple of trees, part of Tony's green initiative. Anthony immediately went to the edge of the roof and stared out at the city. Ian regarded the pool with wonder.

" _Just_ for swimming in?" he asked Tony.

"Yeah, don't drink the water," Tony said.

"You don't even keep fish in it?"

"There's a fish pond on the grounds."

"Not for fishing in," Steve added. "If you want to eat fish, all you have to do is ask Jarvis."

"In my universe we lost the Empire State Building," Anthony said, rejoining them at the pool's edge. "It's nice it's back."

"Lost it?" Tony asked.

"There was a flood," Anthony said, shrugging.

"Let's go look at the gym downstairs," Steve said.

The practice rooms with the real, dangerous equipment were all below ground, but there was a pretty standard gym on the fourth floor -- basketball court, weights, workout equipment, and a pervasive smell of honest sweat from the locker rooms. Anthony and Ian immediately got into a one-on-one soccer match with a random ball that had been lying around.

"Look, no insult to your kid, but these two are messed up," Tony said, watching them play.

"They'll rebound. Kids are flexible," Steve replied. "All the more reason they need to be here under our eye for a while."

"Under your eye."

"Tony, you can't just walk away from him. Can't you see how he's watching you?"

"Kids aren't my thing, you know that."

"You're fine with kids. It's just this kid who's scaring you."

"I'm not scared of a nine year old."

"Really? I'd be terrified of nine-year-old Tony Stark."

Tony snorted. "Yeah you would. I was an asshole."

"Was?"

"Low blow, Captain Dad." Tony crossed his arms. "My point is, he's better off with you. You got a handle on this."

"I don't know exactly what Anthony's story is," Steve said. "But he clearly had a very close relationship with his Tony. You're equipped to talk with him on his level, which is way above Ian's, and probably above mine. You can't run out on this just because you didn't expect it."

"You mean you're not going to let me."

"More or less. Come on, Tony, you risk your life to save the planet, you can't put aside a few hours a day for one kid?"

"Resilient -- "

"You sold Resilient."

"Which means I need to start -- "

"Tony," Steve said. "What you need to do is prevent Anthony from thinking he came across a universe, rescued my son, and brought him home to me and his reward is his father avoiding and ignoring him."

"F-word."

"You really want to be his gene donor, would that be better?"

"It's more accurate," Tony pointed out.

"Genius or not, he's nine," Steve said, and played his ace while Anthony dodged around Ian and kicked the soccer ball against the wall for a goal. "Ducking out of this, that's the kind of thing your father would do."

Tony stiffened. "You fucker."

"Tell me I'm lying."

"You motherfucker, you don't get to call Howard on me."

"Then don't act like him," Steve said, turning to face him. "I knew your father. He was a good man but I know he screwed it up with you. It's a testament to your character that you overcame that. You're a good man too, and you can make a different call." He turned back to the boys. "I did."

"Steve, nobody in this universe is going to realistically hold me up to you as a measure."

"I do." Steve stepped forward. "Come on, guys. Second floor is the labs and the library. If you're lucky, Hank'll be there and he'll let you blow something up."

"Awesome!" Anthony yelled.

***

The library, which Steve had high hopes for, was something of a bust. Ian looked around, clearly impressed, but pointed out that he already had a book Logan had given him. Steve made a mental note to find out when and how that had happened. Anthony scoffed and said he could find whatever he needed on wikipedia. Tony did look somewhat delighted by that, which was progress.

The labs on the rest of the floor were shut down and locked -- most of the Avengers, if they were so inclined, had better labs elsewhere, and these were just for emergency work.

The little kitchenette at the end of the hall had some people in it. Hank Pym, Hank McCoy, and Bruce Banner were clustered around a table -- Tony'd had whiteboards put on the countertops a long time ago, the third or fourth time he'd come in to find the tables covered in magic marker or lipstick. They were scribbling equations on the surface now, rubbing them out and occasionally writing over each other. They were so engrossed in their discussion they didn't notice Anthony until he popped his head over the edge of the table and announced, "Your math is wrong."

"Just the lad we wanted," McCoy said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "We were working out your energy expenditure. Which one of us is incorrect?"

"All of you," Anthony replied confidently. Banner and Pym exchanged looks. "The basic premise of your formula is flawed."

Steve watched as Tony leaned over the boy, studying the calculation in the center of the table. "There's room for error," he agreed.

"Why don't you give us a start," Pym said encouragingly. Anthony gave him a mistrustful look. "What's with the eyebrows?"

"Sorry. You're not a very nice guy on my world," Anthony replied.

"Somehow, I'm not surprised," Pym answered. "Tony'll vouch for me in this one, right?"

"He's weird, but he's not evil," Tony agreed, as McCoy pressed a whiteboard marker into Anthony's hand.

Steve steered Ian around the table and towards the little fridge, rummaging inside for a bottle of juice. He handed it to him and led him to another table under the windows. Ian opened the juice, took a long sip, and then turned to press his nose to the glass, staring out at the grounds and, beyond them, at Manhattan.

"How many people are on this world?" he asked, over the distant chatter of the scientists, dominated by Anthony's high, young voice.

"Six billion, give or take," Steve said.

"How many thousand is that?"

There had been three thousand Phrox, counting all the tribes; only two hundred-odd in their tribe, the one Steve had led. The biggest had over five hundred, but there'd never been a need to count above a thousand, and Ian had never learned higher numbers. Steve had always felt reading and writing was more important than 'rithmetic.

"It's six million thousands," Steve said. "Um. Six thousand thousand thousands."

"That's so many," Ian said softly. "How do they all stay fed?"

"Some don't," Steve said. "We're lucky. America is a wealthy tribe."

"How many people in our tribe?"

"In all of the country? About three hundred million. Three thousand thousands. In Manhattan, where we are now, there are a thousand thousands."

"Who leads the tribe?"

"We have a lot of leaders. We have leaders, and leaders of our leaders."

"Are you a leader?"

"Not like I was in Dimension Z," Steve said. "It's very complicated."

"I guess so, with that many people," Ian agreed. "Who is the leader of all the leaders?"

"In our country, the president. Barack Obama."

"Do you know him?"

"I've met him."

"Is he a good leader?"

"Lots of people argue about that," Steve said. "I think he is. Better than some. You know how hard it was for me just leading the Phrox."

He was aware that silence had fallen at the other table, and looked over to see Anthony capping his pen. Both Hanks and Bruce were staring down at the table in shock.

"Everything all right over there?" Steve called.

"I think I broke them," Anthony replied.

"Were you this smart when you were his age?" Pym asked Tony.

"I wasn't really into physics, back then, it was mostly robotics," Tony answered. "Uh. Anthony, if you're finished, I think we'd better leave these brains to wrestle with what you've just written."

"If you need me to explain it, I can," Anthony offered.

"No, no, I think they understand it," Tony replied. "I'm not sure they're _comfortable_ with it."

"Oh. Well, if it's any consolation, given the randomness of the universe and the fact that molecules are unevenly dispersed, it's a mercy we got this far," Anthony said. Bruce put his face in his hands, and McCoy smiled lightly.

"A small philosopher. We'll speak more later, young Anthony," he said. Anthony waved and looked at Steve, a silent question. _What next?_

Steve led them towards the back stairway, down to the first floor -- the "show and tell" floor, Tony had called it, the first time he'd shown Steve around. Steve, overawed by the grandeur of the mansion, thought Tony was house-proud, and with good reason. The first floor had the assembly room, the kitchen and living room and most of the quarters, but it also had the grand reception hall and the giant ballroom for rare Avengers formal functions.

He was just starting down the stairs towards the landing when he heard Anthony whimper, and saw him grab sharply for Tony's hand. It was an instinctive movement, and the fear flickering over Anthony's face said he hadn't meant to do it.

"All right, Anthony?" he asked. Ian, on the landing, turned to look up at them.

"I don't want to take the stairs," Anthony said. "Can we take the elevator? I saw one."

"To go down?" Steve asked, brow furrowing.

"Or the other stairs," Anthony said, tugging Tony away from the stairwell. He was backing away, as if something on the stairs had scared him, but when Steve followed his line of sight all he saw was the portrait that had hung back there forever.

It was a joke, really. Tony had commissioned a bunch of portraits of superheroes over the years, singly and in groups; Steve knew a dreadful one of himself, full-length, unspeakably bold and heroic, hung in the grand ballroom, facing one of Tony, flanked by Hank McCoy and Carol Danvers. Tony had ordered one of the Fantastic Four, for political reasons, but he'd hung it in the dark back-stairway as a fond snub. Anthony was staring at the portrait as if he was afraid it would come to life and bite him.

"Ian, come up," Steve said.

"Sure," Ian replied, looking as confused as Steve felt. "It's fine, Anthony, just a little dim."

"I don't want to go that way," Anthony insisted.

Tony hitched his pants to crouch, following Anthony's look. "What's wrong with the painting? That's just the Fantastic Four. That's Sue Storm, Reed Richards -- "

"I know who they are," Anthony said sharply.

"Whoa," Steve said, as Ian joined them at the top of the stairs. "Anthony. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I just want to take the other stairs!" Anthony said, his voice rising a little. Tony looked to Steve, haplessness written all over his face.

"Okay, that's fine," Steve said. "We'll backtrack a little, nothing to worry about."

Tony straightened. Anthony grabbed his hand again, already turning, moving away from the stairwell.

"I'll find out what happened," Ian whispered to Steve.

"How about you let us take care of Anthony," Steve said. "You just be his friend, okay?"

"But -- "

"Tony and I won't let any harm come to either of you. Don't worry about it."

"Okay, Dad."

Up ahead, Steve heard Anthony say, "Where are they, anyhow?"

"Who, the Fantastic Four? We're not sure," Tony replied. "They took a trip with the Richards kids. They were supposed to be back by now, but they've gone missing. Best minds in the country are trying to figure out how."

"So they aren't here?" Anthony asked, sounding relieved.

"Not right now, no."

"Oh."

"This is actually good," Tony continued. "We can bypass the first floor this way, hit the basement straight-up."

"What's in the basement?" Ian asked.

"The workshops and the Avengers supercomputer mainframe. All the cool stuff," Tony replied.

***

They almost had to bodily pry Anthony out of the workshop, once he got over whatever his problem was with the painting in the stairwell. Even once they'd lured him upstairs for lunch, he talked endlessly about the workshop and the mainframe, all the interesting things he could do or wanted to do. Ian, who'd been almost immediately bored by all the gadgets, looked perpetually amused by his suddenly talkative friend.

"Man," Tony said in the kitchen, as Steve fixed Ian a second bowl of soup and Anthony kept trying to talk around huge bites of buttered bread. "I'm beginning to see why my dad drank."

Steve shot him a look. "Do you need to call Matt?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "It was rhetorical exaggeration."

"I know this isn't easy -- "

"Steve. It's fine. I'm on top of things. Going to meetings, doing the day at a time," Tony said, reaching into his pocket and flicking something at Steve. He caught it out of the air; a little gold-colored plastic disc, cheaply stamped with a 1 on the front. "Just got my year chip."

Steve grinned and tossed it back. "Congratulations, Tony."

"Thanks. No, my point was, that kid is _exactly_ the noisy, nonstop little shit I was at his age. Makes me all nostalgic. And kind of twitchy."

"You want me to take them solo this afternoon?"

Tony leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "I'd like nothing better, but he's also a needy, terrified little shit, you weren't wrong. What was up with the painting?"

"I don't know. I'll talk to him."

"You think maybe he knows something we don't?"

"I think he knows a lot we don't," Steve said. He carried the bowl back to the table and set it in front of Ian. "Anthony, you want some more?"

"No, I'm okay," Anthony said. "Are we going out?"

"Soon as Ian finishes," Steve said. "Unless you guys are tired."

"I'll eat fast," Ian said.

"You'll chew your food," Steve replied.

"Yes dad."

"Can we go to the Stark Store?" Anthony asked.

Tony blinked at him. "Why?"

"I want a Starkpad."

"Pretty sure I can hook you up with a pre-retail model," Tony said.

"Cool! Can I reprogram it?"

"You probably can, yeah," Tony sighed.

***

Tony, as with most of the crucial moments in his life, was mainly hoping Steve knew what he was doing when they left the gates of the mansion and ventured out into the city.

The problem was, he really didn't think Steve did.

It had been hard, watching Steve withdraw the last few weeks. Everyone had noticed. Tony had privately wondered if Steve was having some kind of actual depressive episode. Now he was lit up like every day was Christmas, and when he looked at Ian -- at his son, and how bizarre was that? -- his smile was brighter than Tony had seen in weeks, if not months.

Stranger still was the quiet, dark-haired little boy who clung equally to Tony and Ian. A little Stark, a little _Tony_ Stark, all Tony's DNA (he'd swabbed Anthony's mug from the night before). Terrifying and gratifying in equal parts. The kid was a tiny arrogant genius, and Tony had experienced a horrible moment where he actually thought, _What a chip off the old block._

He was going to fuck this up. It was pretty much his MO. But until he did, he was...kind of enjoying it. Beneath the fear, beneath the how-is-this-now-my-life sensation, he liked that Anthony trusted him unconditionally, that he was the one the boy reached for when he was unsettled.

Tony was entirely uncertain it was wise for Iron Man and Captain America to take two pre-teen boys out into Manhattan. He had his usual incognito look -- sunglasses, ball cap, shapeless sweater -- and Steve was in his glass-lens coke bottle glasses and jeans, which somehow nobody ever expected Captain America to wear. Still, tempting fate.

Both boys stared out the window unceasingly as the chauffeur drove them into downtown. Jarvis, sitting next to him, looked pleased.

"Pleasant to see children in the house again," he said to Tony, as Ian asked Steve his millionth question about what they were seeing. "I remember how lovely it was to have young Miss Luna, and -- and Miss Cassie."

"Funny, I remember you mostly bickering with Luna's nanny," Tony replied. He didn't like to talk about Cassie. She might not have been his kid, but he'd been Uncle Tony, and that wound was still a little fresh.

"Differences of opinion are to be expected," Jarvis answered properly. "They seem like fine young boys, at any rate."

"Yeah," Tony answered uncertainly. Jarvis gave him a reassuring look.

"I remember when you were growing up in the mansion," he said. "Never was a more charming little gentleman than yourself, sir."

"Your memory is very selective."

"A light hand is best, I've always felt. And you turned out well, so I have no concerns about Master Anthony."

"That makes one of us."

"I'm sure Captain Rogers will take up any slack," Jarvis said. "Driver, here please. All right, young masters, here we are. Master Ian, don't wander too far from the Captain, if you please. Master Anthony, remember your manners."

"What manners?" Anthony asked cheerily, as they all piled out.

"Jarvis, where did you..." Steve asked, and Tony watched, amused, as he looked around. "I thought we'd go to Central Park or something. Where are we..."

He finally made the full turn and looked up at the sign. FAO SCHWARTZ.

"Really?" he asked, glancing at Tony.

"Hey, you got years to learn all this nurturing stuff. What I know how to do is spend," Tony replied sunnily. Anthony was already leading Ian into the store.

***

Steve had to admit he was pleased with his secret but probably kind of obvious plan to ease Tony into parenting. True, buying the boys armloads of toys wasn't perhaps the most paternal move in the world, but clearly Tony had put some thought into what he should do, and what he could do, and come up with a typically Tony Stark solution.

Inside, Tony caught up with Anthony and followed him off through lego sets and lunchboxes and dollhouses; Ian had stopped in front of a huge wall of stuffed animals, and Steve hovered quietly nearby. Ian studied them for a long time, not touching anything.

"They're not for eating, are they?" Ian said. "There's no meat in them? And they're not trophies."

"No. They're stuffed. They're for kids to...play with, I guess," Steve said. "Remember your Raggedy Andy?"

It hadn't really resembled the Raggedy Andy of Steve's youth; it hadn't resembled a doll at all, much, just a tied-together bundle of rags with vague arms and legs, and a face drawn on with crude pigment. Ian had loved the little doll, though, and even after he got too old for dolls he'd kept it in their room in the caves, high on a ledge in a place of honor. God knew where it was now; back in whatever remained of Dimension Z, Steve supposed.

"I remember," Ian said.

"Well, they're like that. They're all Earth animals. Bears, tigers, zebras, lions. That's a porpoise," Steve said. "That's a cow."

"Which is fiercest?"

"Probably the lion. Do you want one?"

"No," Ian said. "Dollies are for babies."

"If you want one, you can have one."

"I don't -- " Ian said, and cut off on a sharp inhale. Steve looked over his head and saw he'd found the stuffed superhero dolls.

He knew Tony had licensed their likenesses years ago -- sales of Steve's, at least, went to childrens' charities -- and he'd long ago gotten used to kids asking him to sign their Captain America dolls. They were hot sellers; only Thor sold more, and Steve privately thought that was only because Thor came with a soft hammer kids could whap each other with.

Ian reached out and touched one of the Captain Americas reverently.

"They make dolls of you?" he asked.

"Yeah," Steve said, not sure quite how to explain that. Ian took it down and studied it, from the red felt boots to the removable cowl with yellow yarn hair underneath.

"IAAAAAN!" Anthony yelled across the store, and Ian's head whipped around.

"YEAH, COMING!" he yelled back, and took off, Captain America still clutched in one hand, Steve trailing behind. 

Anthony had discovered the action figures, and was playing with a store display model, making Iron Man's palms light up. Tony was looking unbearably smug.

"Nice doll," he told Steve, nodding at the toy, forgotten in Ian's hand. "Nothing as cool as my action figure, though."

"Are you going to make the twelve-inch Iron Man joke?" Steve asked.

"I am never not going to make the twelve-inch Iron Man joke," Tony replied solemnly.

"Captain America!" Anthony said, and it took Steve a second to realize he wasn't actually being addressed. "The evil Hydra soldiers are attacking!"

"Avengers Assemble!" Ian answered, shaking a Captain America action figure. "Where's Wolverine?"

"I dunno if they have one," Anthony said, looking around. "Wait, grab that one, that's Thor."

"No, I found him," Ian said triumphantly. "You go fly and attack them! We'll hit 'em low!"

"Is this what kids do with us?" Tony asked, as the two of them slammed all the action figures together. "My God."

"Welcome to parenthood," Steve said drily. "Back in Z, Ian and the Phrox kids would run around hitting each other with sticks. I figured whatever kept them out of trouble."

"GIANT LIZARD!" Anthony said, bringing a Godzilla doll into play. Tony covered his eyes.

"Can I help you gentlemen with anything?" a store attendant asked, approaching them from the side.

"Are you okay with the kids destroying your merch?" Tony asked.

"It happens," he answered with a smile. "I see they're into superheroes. The twelve-inch Iron Man is one of our best sellers."

Steve shot Tony a warning look. "What do you recommend for twelve-year-olds? Very energetic twelve-year-olds."

"Does he enjoy skateboarding?" the sales assistant asked. Steve had visions of Ian on a skateboard.

"Maybe something less...perilous," he said.

"Roller skates," Tony suggested. Steve glared. "What? Kids love roller skates."

" _You_ love roller skates."

"Because I had them when I was a kid!"

The man smiled. "We do sell a full range of protective gear, as well as roller skates."

Ten minutes later, Ian was test-driving a pair of rollerblades and Steve was watching his life flash before his eyes. Anthony, behind him, was gliding along with enviable ease on a pair of traditional skates.

"You must be very proud of them," the attendant said. Steve sensed he was anticipating a very large commission. "Can I interest you in some educational toys for the boys?"

"Ah, I think we've got that covered," Steve said. "Anthony's above his grade level and Ian's not really an educational-toy kind of kid."

"Your partner's great with the little one," the attendant observed, as Tony grabbed Anthony right before he could body-slam Ian.

"He's got good reflexes," Steve said, before the term sunk in. "Oh, uh, we're...IAN!" he yelped, as Ian jumped a train set spread out on the floor and skidded to a stop against a display. "Mary mother of _God_ , you are going to kill me," he said, steadying Ian with one hand.

"These are the best!" Ian said, beaming at him. "Now all I need is a spear!"

"All right, no more skating indoors," Steve said. He turned to the sales attendant. "Protective gear. Please."

Tony seemed to think they'd gotten off lightly, by the time they hauled it all up to the register: the pads and helmets and skates, the action figures and Captain America doll and a cheap plastic sword Anthony took a shine to. Tony paid, waving Steve off when he reached for his wallet.

"It's on me," he said. "My idea."

"Fine, when Ian breaks an arm I'll charge that to you, too," Steve said, just as Jarvis appeared like magic to take the bags, leading them out of the store. "Can you think of anything else we need?" he asked Tony, putting a little emphasis on _need_.

"I've taken the liberty of ordering the requested bunk-beds for delivery," Jarvis said. "As well as sheets and blankets. We have sufficient toiletries at the mansion already. Young Masters, is there anything else you require?" he asked, stuffing the toys into the trunk.

Ian and Anthony held a brief whispered conference.

"Thank you, we like what we have," Ian said finally. "Anthony wants to watch Looney Tunes."

"With ice cream," Anthony added. 

***

By bedtime that night, Jarvis had badgered Jen into moving the bed out of the boys' room, and managed to convince the Hanks that between them they ought to be able to assemble a simple bunk bed set. When Steve took the boys into the bathroom, the beds were set up with Avengers logo blankets.

"I worry we are branding the children," Steve said to Jarvis, passing him in the hallway on a mission to get a glass of water for Anthony.

"Nonsense. Providing a sense of identity," Jarvis replied, shaking out a pair of Incredible Hulk towels for the bathroom.

"I get the feeling you're on Tony's side."

"As ever, Captain, I'm on the side of those who need it most," Jarvis said with a smile. "The children."

Steve sighed and continued on his way, grabbing a bottle of water -- spills less likely -- from the nearest fridge. He was just coming back from the kitchen when he heard the boys talking, and he paused outside the room.

" -- want the top bunk?" Anthony asked.

"Nah. I like the bottom," Ian said. "This way if someone attacks us, I'll have feet on the ground."

Steve felt his heart break a little.

"But nobody will, right?" Anthony asked.

"Well, I don't know," Ian said reasonably. "I mean I assume they won't. Dad would tell me if it were dangerous. Who would attack us here?"

It was a casual question, easily put, and Steve sighed inwardly. _I told you to let me handle it, kid._

"Tony says the Fantastic Four are gone," Anthony said after a moment.

"But they're good guys."

"So they say," Anthony said darkly.

"What've you got against them, anyway?"

"Nothing. Forget I said anything."

Ian was silent, and Steve was about to come in when he heard Ian say, "I can't protect you if I don't know what's wrong." Another pause, and then, "You want my Captain America? I was going to just put him on the shelf but you can have him up there if you want."

"No, it's fine," Anthony answered. He drew a breath. "It's a secret. You can't tell your dad."

"I don't tell him everything."

News to Steve. Still, it made sense. He'd never told his mother everything either. Kids had their secrets. Most of them were harmless.

"Promise," Anthony insisted.

"Okay, I promise, jeez."

There was a soft, unsteady breath. "Reed Richards killed Tony. In my world. I had to watch."

Steve rested a hand against the wall, bowing his head. So that was Anthony's secret; the bad guy who'd killed his -- for all intents and purposes, his father -- was Reed Richards.

It wasn't hard to imagine. Reed was a decent guy, but he'd danced along the edge before.

"Dad says he's okay though," Ian said. "In this world. He'd say if he weren't."

"The others might be. I don't trust Richards."

"Okay. Well if he comes back and tries to get you, I'll clobber him for you," Ian said, finality in his tone. Problem solved. "I'll hit him with my rollerskates."

There was a giggle. "With your rollerskates?"

"Uh huh. Dad says a weapon is anything you can bonk someone on the head with."

"He stretches. I don't think that'd hurt him."

"Bet it'd stun him long enough for us to yell for Dad, though."

"You'd do that?" Anthony asked.

"You saved me, didn't you? Besides," Ian continued, "Dad says anyone who's bigger has to look out for anyone who's smaller."

There was a rustle, and then a curious noise.

"What are you doing?" Anthony asked.

"Sayin' prayers," Ian said. Steve smiled and waited a beat, then knocked on the half-open door. "Hey Dad!"

"Hi, kid," Steve answered, as Ian climbed into bed. He offered the bottle of water to Anthony, who took a sip and then handed it back. "You two all settled?"

"Yep," Ian said. Anthony nodded, blankets pulled up around his chin, almost lost in the sea of bedding.

"Is Tony coming?" he asked.

"I think Tony's passed out in the living room. He's not used to the two of you. I can get him, if you -- "

"No, s'okay," Anthony said hurriedly. Steve was about to say it wouldn't be a problem, but there was a shadow in the doorway, yawning. Steve nodded at Tony, then bent to kiss Ian's forehead.

"Sleep safe," he murmured. "Nobody can hurt you here."

Tony elbowed him aside, propping his chin on the rail of Anthony's bed. "You gonna fall out, rambler?" he asked.

"No," Anthony replied.

"Sure?"

"He's fine," Ian interrupted.

"I'll be next door if you need anything," Steve said. "Don't stay up late talking."

Tony had stretched one arm out on the upper bunk, hand resting uneasily on the blankets like he wasn't sure what to do. Anthony untangled an arm and reached out, touching Tony's fingers.

"G'night," Anthony said sleepily.

"Goodnight," Tony replied. He pulled back almost reluctantly, and Steve followed him out, shutting the door gently behind him. "Do they need a nightlight or...?"

"Jarvis installed one. Come on, debrief," Steve said, leading him towards the living room. Tony dropped into one of the more comfortable chairs like he'd suddenly forgotten how to stand.

"Christ, what time is it, nearly nine o'clock? Somewhere, the twenty-two-year-old me is looking at me and shaking his head," Tony said, rubbing his face. "I'm _exhausted_."

"They take it out of you."

"How the hell did you deal? I mean, you had the kid since he was an infant, right? How did you do the whole feeding and diapers thing?"

"Probably ineptly. Neither of us remembers it terribly well, which is probably a mercy. I don't think I slept for about a year."

"What made you do it?" Tony asked quietly.

"He was a baby. I couldn't leave him with Zola." Steve sat forward. "We have something more important to talk about."

"Oh?"

"Anthony's reaction to the portrait. It was Reed."

"Well, he's kind of creepy, but -- "

"In his world, Reed's a bad guy. In his world, Reed killed you and he had to watch."

Tony went still. After a moment, he scrubbed a hand through his hair.

"Shit," he groaned.

"I don't think you can enroll him at the Future Foundation."

Tony looked at Steve through his fingers. "That's where you went with that?"

Steve cocked his head.

"The kid watched his -- for all intents and purposes -- dad get murdered by a guy I sometimes share lab space with. And it's not like I don't know Reed has some deep fucking dark in him. We all do. But mostly...I mean, my parents weren't the greatest and they died a relatively terrible death, but I didn't have to watch them die in front of me." He ran his hand back up through his hair. "What the hell do we do? He probably needs therapy or something, right?"

"Both of them are going to need time and help," Steve said. "But Anthony seems thrilled just to be here, Tony. What I meant about the Future Foundation was a subtle hint."

"That I can't give him to someone else and expect him to be okay."

"More or less."

"Even if I could, the Jean Grey School's too far away," Tony groaned. "And...I mean, shit. _Shit._ "

"What?"

"I got my GED when I was fourteen, went off to MIT the next year. You've seen how he is with math. He has a jump start on me, even, because they didn't have Wikipedia when I was nine. So either I send him to college before his voice breaks, or I hire a shitload of tutors and undersocialize him, or I teach him myself. Which doesn't solve the social problem."

"He has Ian."

"Who isn't exactly going to just sit still for eight hours a day in a classroom either, is he?"

"No, but I knew that. For now I just want him to have a few weeks to get adjusted. Tony..." Steve spread his hands. "I've had his whole life to work this out. You've had a day and a half. Don't judge your options based on mine."

"What if I took him back to Seattle with me? I've still got a place out there. I could, I don't know, take a leave of absence like you are."

"Would you let us come too, if you did?" Steve asked. "I don't think we should separate him from Ian. And Ian..."

"What?"

"In Z, I was the leader of our Phrox clan. Ian takes the idea of protecting people very seriously."

"Can't imagine why a kid raised by you would feel that way," Tony drawled.

"You see how he is with Anthony. He needs someone to take care of. He defined himself -- both of us -- by our duties to the clan. Ian wasn't the leader of the children but he made sure the bigger kids didn't bully the little ones. Looking after Anthony is good for him, and learning how to play from Anthony is good for him too." Steve sighed. "I'm sorry, Tony, I don't mean to pour all this in your lap, but we can't change the fact that Anthony needs you, and Ian needs Anthony right now."

"We need a plan," Tony said.

"Spoken like an engineer."

"I'll make a plan," Tony continued, more or less ignoring him. "If we have a plan, everything will be fine."

"I think you may find kids don't tend to adhere to plans," Steve said.

"That's okay, I'll factor for variables."

"Tony," Steve said, as Tony stood up. He reached out and caught his arm. "Plan tomorrow. Get some rest tonight. They're here and they're safe; that's more than I thought I'd have, two days ago."

Tony nodded. "I'll be in the lab sleep suite. Wake me for breakfast."

 

***

Waking came a little sooner than either of them anticipated.

Steve, with a practiced ear, heard the shriek through his dreams and came groggily awake, aware something was wrong but not sure what. He rolled out of bed, confident things would make sense by the time he made it to his feet, and then hurried into the hallway and through the door to the boys' room. The nightlight threw yellow light over Ian's empty bed, blankets rumpled, and two huddled figures in Anthony's.

"Ian?" Steve asked, flicking the lights on. Ian, nearest the edge of the top bunk, flinched at the sudden light; he had Anthony pulled under one arm, the smaller boy's face pressed to his chest. "Anthony, are you all right?"

There was a soft sob. Steve leaned carefully against the railing of the bunk and touched Anthony's shoulder. "Are you hurt?"

"He screamed," Ian said grimly.

"I heard. Was it a nightmare?" Steve asked. Ian rarely had nightmares; their lives had never been easy, but it had been all Ian had known, and aside from infancy and the first year they'd spent with the Phrox, he'd been a deep sleeper.

"He killed him," Anthony whispered. "It was awful, he put his fingers in his brain and -- "

"Okay, it's okay," Steve said. "It's fine, you're safe here."

"But he killed _Tony_ ," Anthony sobbed, breathing hard and fast.

"Ian, look after him," Steve said, and Ian nodded. "I'll be back soon."

He ran down the hall and up the back stairwell to the lab level, where Tony was sleeping in the room normally reserved for scientists waiting on lab results to clear. Steve supposed it was comforting. Tony came awake quickly when Steve called his name.

"Nrrrr Assembly call?" Tony managed, sitting up in the bed and rubbing one eye with the heel of his hand. "Motherfucking supervillains, middle of the fucking night -- "

"It's Anthony," Steve said. Tony's head jerked up. "He needs you."

"Why?" Tony asked, bewildered but already climbing out of bed.

"He dreamed about you dying," Steve told him, as they hurried towards the stairs.

"Oh, fuck's _sake_ , I'm not equipped for this," Tony mumbled.

"You don't have to do anything, just be there and don't be dead," Steve snapped.

"Fine, I'm coming, Jesus," Tony replied. He went through the door ahead of Steve, stepping up on the bottom rung of the bunk-ladder. "Hey, rugrats," he said, and Anthony lifted a blotchy, teary face.

Tony was opening his mouth to say something else, probably something inappropriate if his _I can't deal_ expression was anything to go by, but Anthony pre-empted him, throwing himself across Ian to wrap his arms around Tony's neck. Tony's arms came up on autopilot and he pulled Anthony off the bed, taking the blanket with him and settling on the edge of Ian's bunk.

"I know you're not him," Anthony was saying, voice muffled against Tony's t-shirt. "I know you're not him, I'm sorry -- "

"It's fine, kiddo," Tony said, as Ian descended the ladder.

"I was scared and I didn't know what to do."

"Well, you did okay," Tony told him.

"You got here," Steve added from the doorway. "You brought Ian here too. You're safe here, Anthony."

"He killed you and I didn't know what to _do_ ," Anthony repeated.

"And yet, here you are," Tony said, which sounded cruel until Steve remembered that Anthony was Tony, smaller but no less smart. Logic held a pivotal place in their world. "You didn't know what to do but you got yourself out of there and found somewhere safe. That proves you can handle anything anyone throws at you." He paused, and an odd expression crossed his face. "But you don't have to anymore."

"I don't have to," Anthony echoed.

"Right."

"But if you die -- "

"Then Steve's here," Tony said. "And if neither of us are here, there's about fifty other people who'd step in. Avengers look after their own."

"Scott and Logan are already fighting over who gets to teach you guys," Steve added.

"Logan," Ian whispered. "He's cool."

"Time enough for that later," Steve said firmly. "Anthony, you think you can sleep?"

Anthony nodded, scrubbing his face with his hands. Tony tucked up the edge of his shirt and wiped Anthony's nose with it, then looked faintly appalled at himself. He tossed the blanket back up on the top bunk, and boosted Anthony up the ladder.

"Should I stay?" Tony whispered, as Ian settled himself back into the lower bunk.

"You might want to find somewhere closer than the lab," Steve answered, flicking out the lights. "All right, guys, good-night take two."

"Night," Ian said. Anthony sniffled a response.

"I think the room on the other side is empty," Steve said, gesturing down the hall once they were outside. "Or you can bunk with me. Wouldn't be the first time."

"This is messed up," Tony said, not going one way or the other. "This is really messed up, Steve."

"You did great," Steve said.

"I am becoming my father, this is -- "

"Tony," Steve said, dragging him away from the door, towards his own room. "You were fantastic. What's the problem?"

"Literally word for word what my dad said when I was a freaked out little kid," Tony replied. "You can handle anything, don't be a coward, if you can't handle it you didn't try hard enough -- "

"Hey, whoa," Steve said, blinking at him. "That is not what you just told him."

"I almost did."

"You told him he did well and that he was safe. You said someone was always going to look out for him. You didn't say anything about being a coward or a failure or any of that bull, and you know it's bull," Steve said intently.

"Sorry, sorry, I..." Tony rubbed his forehead. "Haha, both Starks freaking out within ten minutes of each other, this really is just like my childhood. Maybe _I_ need therapy."

"Tony," Steve said, shaking him a little. "It's the middle of the night, you just worked Anthony through a nightmare, you did _fine_. Take a deep breath. Figure out what you need right now and let's get back to sleep, okay?"

Tony nodded, visibly pulling himself together. "I think I need to bunk with you, if that's fine."

"Sure." Steve tilted his head at the bed, large enough to fit them both. They'd shared quarters in the field before, and one memorable time in a prison; Tony generally slept on his left side, something about the way the first RT had been positioned in his chest, and Steve put his back to Tony's, the way he'd shared a tent with Bucky during the war.

He could feel tension radiating off Tony in waves, but after a while his shoulders settled, and his breathing slowed. Steve lay awake for much of the night, listening for another cry from Anthony, but he eventually dozed off around dawn.

***

Logan was used to screaming children. It wasn't as bad as it sounded; running the school, he'd learned to differentiate screams of glee from screams that indicated a fistfight amongst the students from genuine screams of terror. He judged that the screams slowly nearing his position in the mansion kitchen were the screams of a child who was afraid for his life and loving every minute.

A few seconds later, Ian careened past the kitchen on a pair of rollerblades. Anthony was right behind him yelling "Slide and brake! Slide and brake!"

Logan sipped his coffee. In the distance, there was a crash. He didn't fret; anything valuable had long since been removed from the mansion after the third or fourth time it was attacked, and kids' bones knit faster than adults.


	8. Darcy Lewis, Agent Of SHIELD

After Thor came to Earth -- after Thor left -- they spent the rest of the summer rebuilding Jane's equipment and integrating SHIELD's satellite system into it, and then kicking science's ass up and down the desert.

The day after Thor left, when Jane still thought he might come back again, a transport rolled through town carrying her equipment. Darcy made herself scarce. A platoon of SHIELD thugs were turned over to Jane, and by nightfall everything was back in place, if not entirely reconnected. Darcy watched from the roof, and she saw a man on another roof watching her.

She only came down when SHIELD was gone, after the man in the suit had shaken Jane's hand and taken Erik aside to speak to him. When Jane saw her, she flipped her hair out of her face and smiled.

"We'll turn everything on tomorrow and see what they broke," she said, easily accepting Darcy's recent absence. "Back to business as usual."

Every night until the end of summer, Jane sat outside and waited. Darcy felt uncomfortable watching it, but she didn't say anything. It was sad, seeing hope diminish. And after all, if an actual alien prince had promised _her_ he'd return, she might wait too.

***

They drove back to Massachusetts together, her and Jane and Erik. They left Erik in New York -- apparently he had a research grant that was going to take him away from the school for a while -- and continued on to Cambridge. Jane left her in front of her apartment, and headed for MIT.

Darcy went back to Harvard with a deep New Mexico tan and a secret she couldn't share. Nobody had made her sign a confidentiality agreement or anything, but if she did try to tell someone, a) they'd think she was crazy, and b) she might get assassinated. She wasn't ruling it out.

The week that classes started, she was accosted on her doorstep.

"Ms. Lewis," someone said, and Darcy turned, hand going for her purse where her Tazer was holstered.

When she saw who it was, she rolled her eyes.

"Agent Jackboots," she replied, and the man standing at the bottom of the steps smiled faintly. "Come to give me my iPod back? 'Cause I stole Jane's and her taste in music is crap."

He held up an envelope, offering it to her. She descended the steps carefully, took it from him and examined it. It was thin, light, and stiff.

"Doesn't feel like an iPod," she said.

"Come walk with me," he invited.

"Uh, no?" she replied.

"I'm not here to kill you, Ms. Lewis. We can stick to well-lit streets if you're concerned."

Darcy narrowed his eyes. "Then why are you here?"

"To make you an offer," he said.

"Not interested, thanks," she said, but before she could turn, he started talking.

"Darcy Lewis. Native of Ohio. Senior at Harvard undergraduate, majoring in Political Science. Not quite sure what she wants to be when she grows up."

"Excuse me -- "

"Came to Harvard on a split academic-athletic scholarship and patched the rest up with student loans. I didn't know they gave scholarships for fencing," he added.

"They do when you're as good as I am," she replied, stung.

"Apparently so. Your GPA is twelfth in your graduating year. You were a Resident Assistant your sophomore and junior years. You have a mother who's very proud of you, a father who died when you were young, and no siblings."

"Okay, can we not do this on the street -- "

"You have no parking tickets, no speeding tickets, and one misdemeanor arrest for underage intoxication. No history of seditious activity or ties to any known criminal or terrorist groups or individuals. Although I should warn you, your history professor was an ecoterrorist in the sixties. Still, nobody's perfect. You have a Facebook and Twitter account in your own name, but you also have a second email address through gmail that is linked with several pop culture fansites. As far as we've been able to ascertain your taste in pornography is extremely mild and -- "

"Okay, I actually will taze you if you don't shut up," she said, and got that same faint smile in return. "What do you _want?_ "

"Walk with me," he repeated, and gestured at the street. Darcy sighed, stuffed the envelope in her bag, and followed him as he set off at a leisurely pace towards the main road.

"Dr. Foster's work with SHIELD this summer was exemplary," he said, which was a random tangent after he'd just been airing her pornography preferences on the street. "Both she and Erik Selvig spoke highly of you, and your work with Dr. Foster spoke for itself. What's happened to you, Ms. Lewis, is that you've been put on the map. It's not your fault, but word does get around. Young, resourceful, Harvard-educated. You'll find in the coming months that a lot of people are interested in you. I'm here to get the jump on them."

"People," Darcy repeated.

"FBI. CIA, they're always looking to snap up analysts. A couple of political research think-tanks. What were you thinking of doing, after you graduate?"

Darcy shrugged. "I'm keeping my options open."

"Good. I'd like you to consider SHIELD as one of them. All the information you'll need is in that envelope," he added, nodding at her purse.

"What makes you think for a second I'd join your fascist little gang?" she asked.

"Not so little. And not so fascist. SHIELD is an opportunity to serve your country -- "

"Yeah, I saw a lot of that in New Mexico."

"Did you enjoy your misadventure in the desert?" he asked mildly.

Darcy scowled, but finally admitted, "It didn't suck."

"You could be doing that for a living. It's not all confiscating equipment and suppressing evidence. SHIELD is a national defense organization."

Darcy snorted.

"I'm entirely serious," he said, stopping to turn to her. "There are threats coming, Ms. Lewis, threats that SHIELD is preparing for where no other organization on the planet even has a clue. Thor was just the start."

"Threats like what?"

"Join up and find out," he said. "Send in your application any time. When you're accepted, SHIELD will pay a starting salary for your training once you graduate. If you finish a four-month training course and agree to a five-year contract, SHIELD will pay off your student loans."

"That a standard offer?" Darcy asked, skeptical.

"No. That's your offer."

"And why does SHIELD want me so badly?"

"Well," he said, reaching into his pocket and producing her battered, much-loved iPod. "For one thing, you have exceptional taste in music."

Darcy reached for it, but he drew it back.

"Seriously?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"SHIELD wants your brain. We want to give you aim and direction and expertise. Consider us," he said. "Give it serious thought. SHIELD is the best of the best. I think that's where you'd like to be."

He held out the iPod again, and she took it from his hand.

"Get bent," she told him.

"We hope to hear from you soon," he replied politely, and walked away.

***

Darcy spent the entire semester ignoring the envelope -- it went from her purse to her school backpack to the bookshelf over her desk, and there it stayed.

She'd never really bought into the idea of civil service. She didn't think anyone did. But she watched her classmates get recruited, one by one: business school and law school, Fortune 500 companies, science labs, and yes, the FBI. They came to her too, gave her a slick brochure and a business card.

Besides, she'd spent eighteen years in rural Ohio and four at Harvard; five years anywhere, in return for student loan relief, started to sound better and better. 

She spent winter vacation in Cambridge, funds being a little tight, and on New Year's Eve she was rocking the empty apartment with the music on louder than strictly necessary when she spotted the envelope and took it down. She'd never even opened it.

She slit it down one side and shook out the paperwork, intending to toss it in the trash, but it wasn't a brochure or a pitch. It was a psychological assessment of her. Certain words had been highlighted.

Nonconformist. Oppositional. Seeking direction. Requires structure.

Resourceful. Intelligent. Team Player.

A business card fluttered out of the folds and she picked that up, too.

_Special Agent Phil Coulson_  
 _Supervisor, New Initiatives_  
 _Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division_

The phone number was one digit short.

Frowning, she picked up her phone and entered the number, then hit send.

"Ms. Lewis," a voice answered, sounding unsurprised.

"Agent Jackboots," she said. "Working on New Year's Eve?"

"Curse of cellular technology. My work goes with me. What can I do for you?"

"You didn't give me an application," she said, feeling a little gleeful. "You gave me my top-secret psychological assessment by mistake."

"Well, know thyself," Agent Coulson replied, unflapped.

"You meant to give this to me?"

"Do you really think we wanted an application from you? We've done your background check. We're just waiting for you to say yes. That was a nudge."

"Yeah, your nudges are a little irritating."

"It doesn't seem that excessive to me. Have you considered SHIELD's offer?"

"Not especially."

"Do you have any questions I can answer?"

"Are you for real with all this defending your country crap?"

There was a silence on the other end of the line.

"Do you think it isn't worth defending?" he asked curiously.

"I don't think most people go into it for altruistic reasons," she replied. "I think they do it for a paycheck."

"I'm not averse to you doing it for a paycheck. The patriotism can come later."

Darcy couldn't help it. She laughed.

"Did you get into it for patriotism?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Wow. An old-fashioned idealist, huh?"

"I'll show you my Captain America trading cards sometime."

"Was that a line, Agent Second Amendment?"

"No. They're in a display case on my desk, I'm very proud of them."

"So how do you want me to apply if you didn't give me an application?"

"Call me. Or text. Tell me you're in. You'll receive your briefing packet and an open one-way ticket to New York. Training starts in early July."

"I'm not applying right now."

"I know," he said calmly. "I'm just telling you what will happen when you do."

"If I do."

"Ms. Lewis, I hope you have a lovely New Year's. I'll be awaiting your call."

He hung up on her. Darcy set the phone down and looked out the window at the white-blanketed street.

***

"Who was on the phone?" Fury asked, as Coulson emerged from the little storage cubby where he'd taken the call. "Your cellist?"

"She's performing this evening. No, that was one of the recruits."

"He onboard?"

"She is not, but she will be," Coulson replied, stripping off his holster, adding it to the wallet, keys, and watch sitting in his locker. He locked it, took a parka off the hook, and began pulling it on. "Transport ready?"

"Ten minutes. Keep your pants on."

"Wouldn't take them off out there. What's the weather report?"

"Sixty-five below. It's the arctic, not Miami."

"This is," Coulson said, zipping up the parka and following Fury out of the locker room, "the best Christmas present you have ever given me, Director."

"Man, I gave you a weaponized necktie last year."

"Which was very nice, but it doesn't compare," Coulson replied.

"Not how I thought I'd spend my New Year's," Fury grumbled, as they walked into the garage where the transport was gearing up for the trek out to the crash site. "I had an invitation to the Stark New York Gala."

"Stark trying to buy his way into your affections again?"

"He ain't subtle," Fury agreed, swinging up and into the back of the transport. "You ready to go chip Captain America out of the ice, Agent Coulson?"

"I think I am, Director Fury," Coulson replied with a wide grin.

***

It was late spring when the Chitauri invaded, and Darcy watched it on television, huddled in a classroom with her professors and fellow students, terror palpable in the air.

But she saw the Avengers -- not that she knew that at the time -- take the aliens down, and the destruction it wrought on New York. She saw SHIELD ground crews sweeping in with Emergency Services and police and fire, and she saw the footage of the giant airborne aircraft carrier soaring over the city.

She thought about her grandfather, who'd enlisted in the Army on December eighth. 

When the battle of New York was over, she found Agent Coulson's business card and thought about calling, but he was probably busy. She felt guilty even texting, but not as guilty as she would have felt for not being there when she could be.

She sent a quick text -- _Darcy Lewis. I'm in._ \-- and then called her mom to let her know she loved her.

She never got a reply from Agent Coulson, but four days later her briefing materials arrived by courier.

***

Darcy reported to the SHIELD ground headquarters in Manhattan in July. It was surrounded by wreckage but at least by then the streets were clear. The city was rebuilding already, and she was just as glad SHIELD was going to be housing her, since it was _really_ impossible to find an apartment in New York now.

She presented herself at the front desk of HQ and said, "I'm here for new trainee orientation."

The tired-looking man nodded and handed her a badge. "Through that door and to your left, the auditorium."

"Thanks," she said. "Hey, I was wondering. The guy who recruited me, Agent Coulson. Is he around?"

The man frowned at her. "I'm sorry, ma'am. Agent Coulson died during the Chitauri incident."

"He _died?_ " Darcy demanded.

"Yeah. Incident's classified but you'll be briefed eventually."

"Like, dead died?"

The man gave her a drawn look. "We lost thirty-eight operatives. It happens. Welcome to SHIELD."

***

Because of the losses they'd taken and because SHIELD was now, so their trainer informed them, center-stage in the United States federal security arena, their training was compressed. They crammed four months of training into two and a half, and it was grueling. Painful. Mentally and physically -- she'd never run so many fucking laps in her _life_ , and she sure as hell never fired a gun before SHIELD.

But it was fun, too, and it felt worthwhile, and she began to understand what Agent Coulson had meant when he said the patriotism came later.

She was in with ex-soldiers who were in operative training, geeks and researchers who were going to be analysts (lucky fucks didn't have to do nearly as much PT) and quiet, sharp-witted trainees who were going to be specialists, whatever that meant. Darcy wasn't anything, not yet. There were a couple others like her, so she didn't worry.

After a week of training, they took a day's worth of tests, and Darcy got her orders: report to Specialist training. Then they gave the Specialists _more_ PT, the fuckers.

One night, six weeks in, she was sitting in the trainee barracks on the Helicarrier (holy shit a flying aircraft carrier and she was ON IT) when she asked the girl the next bunk over, Shelly, who recruited her.

"Nobody," Shelly said, groaning as she lay back with a heat pack on her ribs. "I applied. Lucky to get in, too, I had to get a senatorial letter of recommendation. Why, were you recruited?"

"Yeah. A guy came to my apartment and basically told me I was a loser if I didn't sign on."

Shelly laughed. "He was right, huh?"

"I guess so."

"Who was it? One of the trainers?"

Darcy shook her head, toying with her iPod. "Agent Coulson."

"No shit? The great and powerful martyr?"

"He wasn't like that. He was just a guy. I wasn't even that impressed," Darcy said, thinking of seeing Coulson pack all of Jane's precious equipment into a SHIELD van.

"Still. Agent Coulson. That's some social bank around here."

"Guess so," Darcy replied. "Kinda feel like I'm replacing him. Not literally. But. You know."

Shelly nodded. "Sure. Like, there's a legacy. I felt like that in the Marines."

"Yeah," Darcy said. "Legacy."

***

Eight weeks in, the Analysts were separated from the rest of the class and packed off to do their final training. Darcy, in the middle of hand-to-hand, watched enviously as they strolled past the gym carrying their bags.

At lunch that day Shelly and Tom, one of the Operative trainees, sat down at Darcy's table.

"So did you hear?" Tom asked, popping the top on his disgusting energy drink.

"Bout what?" Darcy asked.

"Someone came in hot this morning," Shelly said. "One of the senior agents practically crashed a chopper on the landing deck. He's got some kind of intel. Director Fury's been in meetings all day."

"Things are shaking up," Tom added.

"Where do you get your information?" Darcy asked.

"Shit, Lewis, it's an intelligence agency. Nothing stays secret for long, on the inside," Tom replied. "Word is, Fury sent someone undercover to investigate the World Security Council, and he just got back."

Darcy stared at him. "Nobody investigates the WSC. Nobody knows who they are. That's the point."

"I guess after they tried to fucking nuke New York, Fury gave it a shot," Shelly said. "Do you think he's going to bring down the Council?"

"Guess he'd like to try," Tom replied. "Or at any rate, if I were him I'd try a bloodless coup. Ditch the worst of them and replace them with friendlies. I bet Stark's up for membership."

"Yeah, like that'd happen," Shelly replied.

"Why not? He's rich and politically connected enough to get on, and he might be a dick but he's more or less aligned with SHIELD's philosophy."

"Stark's an Avenger. No way they'd let an Avenger on the World Security Council. Besides, talk about having dirt..."

"But his is all out in the open," Darcy said. "Everyone knows Stark's got no secrets. What would you blackmail him with? You try and tell him to do as you say or word gets out that he, I don't know, used to have a hookers and cocktails habit, he'd brag about it himself."

"He wouldn't have to pay me," Shelly sighed.

"Oooh, someone wants a sugar daddy," Darcy teased.

"That sugar daddy? Hell yes."

They'd seen Tony Stark a few times, over the course of training. At one time or another they'd seen all the Avengers, though mostly the trainees learned not to stare. Agent Barton sometimes watched them do small arms training, and Agent Romanoff actually did a seminar on undercover work for the Specialists. Darcy once saw Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers arguing in the hallway, and everyone had seen Mr. Stark berating the engineers working on the Helicarrier repairs.

"What happens if the WSC does get a shakedown? Or crashes and burns?" Shelly asked.

"Sooner or later we'll find out," Tom said.

That afternoon was when the murmurings began. Darcy watched the rumor jump from group to group, studying how it spread, and she traced it back to the actual duty agents but as a trainee couldn't follow the thread any further to its source. The rumor was that the agent who'd come in hot that morning was in Medical, under heavy guard; the rumor was that it was Agent Coulson, who hadn't really been dead at all. And, well, if anyone was going to pull it off...

So she wasn't as surprised as she could have been when she came to the doorway of the firing range after practice and saw the Avengers passing en masse, escorted by SHIELD agents and more-or-less surrounding Agent Phil Coulson, in a nice suit, not a hair out of place but with a dark tan.

"Hey Jackboots," she called, and the Avengers didn't stop, but Coulson did, and then the rest slowed down and turned. Coulson looked to the side, eyebrows raising when he saw her.

"You stalk me, never answer my texts, and then fake your own death," she said, crossing her arms. "Ruin my life, why don't you."

"Trainee," Coulson said neutrally. "Yes, you seem to be in an absolute shambles."

"I'm crying on the inside. What the fuck, you fascist?"

"I see you got your blacks," Coulson said. "In mourning?"

Darcy looked down at her black Specialist's uniform. "Stop staring at my tits, oppressor."

"You will address me as Agent Coulson, or Sir."

She snapped a salute. "Sir, yes sir."

"As you were, Trainee Specialist Lewis," he said, and turned to walk away. The Avengers followed, Agent Romanoff casting a suspicious, warning glance her way.

She heard Mr. Stark say, "Ex-girlfriend, Agent?"

"Do you ever say anything that's not offensive, Tony?" Captain Rogers asked.

"Not if I can avoid it," Mr. Stark replied.

"Guess the rumors were true," another trainee said from behind Darcy. "Coulson's back. Heads is gonna roll."

"Not ours," Darcy replied.

***

The shakedown did come, not long after that. It registered among the trainees as a series of memos regarding policy changes at SHIELD, all minor in themselves but significant when taken in full. The position of the World Security Council in SHIELD affairs was strangled at the entry point: they could no longer command any SHIELD asset independent of Director Fury's approval, and any orders to drastic action (like, say, nuking Manhattan) had to be given direct vocal approval by Fury or one of his command staff. If no vocal approval was forthcoming, SHIELD agents were at liberty to disobey the request on their own recognizance.

Darcy wondered who had been pulled from the Council, or who was being blackmailed, to give SHIELD that leverage.

Still, the trainees had other concerns. They were now almost completely separated from the Operatives; she only saw Tom and the others every now and then on drills. The Specialists were fracturing too. Trainees were pulled out, and she'd see them around but they never came back to class or to the barracks. Some were sent to late-stage Operative training. One went to the Analysts. Shelly was put on some detail she couldn't talk about, and a few others simply quit, with only a few weeks to go left in training. They came in looking haggard, packed up their bags, and went back to their lives.

"Assassin squad washouts," Shelly said one night in the barracks. The room was slowly growing emptier.

"Seriously?" Darcy asked.

"Well, it's what I think."

"Because I was kind of thinking you might be on one," Darcy said, and Shelly laughed.

"Me? Fuck no. I'm not a killa. Not like that, anyway, and they know it."

And the next morning, an agent came for Darcy.

She was pulled out of Geopolitics, which for her was basically a refresher course anyway, and escorted to one of the meeting rooms. There were a handful of other trainees already there -- two blackshirts like her plus Tom in his olive-drab Operative uniform, looking uncomfortable and nervous.

They all stood when Agent Coulson walked in, but Darcy mouthed _Jackboots_ at him. He ignored her.

"As you were," he said, and they settled into chairs around a large u-shaped table. Coulson took up a position in the middle and handed out StarkPads. "Congratulations. You are now in the final stage of Specialist training for your cohort."

Darcy glanced at Tom, who was staring at Coulson, somewhat aghast.

"Am I in the right room, sir?" he asked.

"Thomas Fawcett?" Coulson asked. Tom nodded. "Yes, Trainee Fawcett."

"Just checking, sir."

"Understandable." Coulson swept the room, and his eyes lingered a little on Darcy before he cleared his throat. "The four of you are being trained with a very specific intent in mind. SHIELD's goals are necessarily shifting after the incursion in New York. Who can tell me how?"

One of the other Specialist trainees held his hand up. "Global defense, sir. Planetary defense."

"Against, Trainee Smith?"

"Aliens."

"Among other things," Coulson said, looking faintly amused.

"Intraplanetary defense as well," Tom offered. Everyone looked at him. "Well. We haven't had a full briefing but from what I've put together, whatever it was that caused the incursion originated in SHIELD. Stands to reason it originated on Earth. It's the cold war all over again, isn't it, Agent Coulson?"

"Except this time it's not us versus them," Smith said. "It's everyone versus everyone."

"And SHIELD versus the world," Darcy added without thinking.

"Dangerous idea, Trainee Lewis," Coulson remarked.

"Well," Darcy said, embarrassed. "What I mean is -- those memos that went out. About the World Security Council. That wasn't exactly cool, was it? Now there's no paper trail if the Director approves an order they give. And if he doesn't approve it, and an agent still follows orders, the agent gets the blame if things go badly." She paused, but Coulson was silent, so she continued. "Makes for cautious thinking. Sir. And easy scapegoats."

"SHIELD doesn't put our people up to twist if we can avoid it, but it's a risk agents at the Specialist level face," Coulson said. "Risking your reputation for your country. It's one of those patriotism things," he added, and Darcy grinned.

Moriz, who hadn't spoken yet, leaned forward. He was slim and dangerous-looking, and he'd always been quiet in class. Darcy wondered why he hadn't been put in for the theoretical assassination squad. "So what's this got to do with us, Agent Coulson?"

"Intraplanetary threats are a significant risk."

"We're our own worst enemy," Darcy said.

"Which is where you come in. The four of you are being tasked with intelligence gathering and occasional action on that intelligence within the developed world. Primarily North America."

"Great. We're the thug squad," Darcy said, sitting back in her seat. Tom looked at her, horrified.

"You have an objection, Trainee Lewis?"

"We're you," Darcy said. Coulson raised an eyebrow. "We're the American hit team. Shit goes down in-country, we're the ones who go out and hush it up. Like New Mexico, right?"

"New Mexico?" Smith asked.

"Above your clearance level," Coulson replied.

"How come she knows about it?"

"How do you think I was recruited?" Darcy asked. She turned back to Coulson. "But I'm not wrong, am I?"

"Not entirely, no, though I'd hesitate to call the four of you a hit squad. We have other...more sociopathic agents for that sort of detail," Coulson said.

"That's totally reassuring," Darcy replied.

"I'm not here to reassure you," Coulson answered. "If you need it, you're in the wrong place. You've been in training with analyst-class trainees. You'll be the ones providing intelligence the analysts will work with. At times you'll be requested, on their recommendation, to take action. At the start, you'll be in training with mentors and older agents -- "

He was launching into a prepared speech, like a first-day-of-class syllabus, and Darcy wasn't quite ready yet for a change of subject.

"But we are you, aren't we?" she asked.

Coulson rubbed his forehead. "Traditionally, yes, Specialists in your position eventually join the command staff of SHIELD. You'll be working under command staff supervision, and your intelligence will often pass through important hands. In this case, it's not unlikely at least two of you will be closely connected to the Avengers Initiative. Now, if I can continue..."

Coulson slipped back into the prepared speech, and Darcy risked another look at Tom. He was looking back, and it was just like in school when the teacher told you to pair up. _I pick you. Be my partner._

They had to sign more paperwork -- another nondisclosure agreement, an updated medical proxy form -- and from there training got _really weird._

They were given lessons in things like fashion and table manners. They were sent down to New York to sit in on MBA finance classes. A funny, charming man was brought in to teach them how to pick pockets and count cards. They spent two days with a Stark Industries programmer who showed them basic hacking techniques. On the second day, Tony Stark took them to lunch at the fanciest place any of them had ever eaten, and spent the whole meal pointing out every social faux pas they made.

"Where do you people _come_ from?" he asked, correcting the fork Tom was about to use on his dessert.

"Ohio," Darcy said, poker-faced.

"You," Stark said, turning to her, "are -- for a start, a stunning woman, and I don't say that as a pass, but because you are going to get a lot more leeway than the stormtroopers you're running with. Get used to that: men in power will forgive a woman almost anything if they look like you. I'm not saying I like it but I'm saying I've done it so I know. You three," and he took in the other agents, all male, "are either going to have to up your game or get very good at pretending to be dumb but pretty, which I have less experience with. Forks!" he ordered, and everyone held up their dessert forks. "You may now eat your pie."

So, fork-drill lunch with Tony Stark was a thing that happened to Darcy now.

***

Two days before they were scheduled to attend their official graduation, Darcy came back to her new tiny cubicle of a living space on the Helicarrier after lunch to find a black cocktail dress laid out on her bed. When she put her head into the hallway, Smith was leaning out of his room next to her.

"There's a tuxedo on my bed," he said.

"Trade you," Darcy replied, holding up the dress.

"Naw, man, I don't have the boobs for it," Smith said. "Fawcett, you got a tux?"

Tom peered into his room, then sighed. "Bowties, how do they work?" he asked.

"Mmm, engraved and everything," Moriz said, emerging from his room. He tossed a thick paper card at Darcy, then skimmed two more along the hall to the others. "We're going to a party."

"The Maria Stark Foundation City Fund Gala," Darcy read. Smith was working on his phone.

"Ten grand a plate," he announced.

"Graduation present?" Tom asked.

"Not exactly," someone said, and they all snapped to attention as Agent Sitwell came down the hallway. He'd handed out a few of their lessons lately; nice guy, for an agent. "You're being given your first mission."

"All right!" Smith said. Darcy held up her dress again, eyebrows raised.

"Skirt slit too high?" Sitwell asked her.

"Where am I supposed to keep my sidearm?"

"You're imaginative, I'm sure you'll work it out," he answered. "The gala tonight is a major social event. The Avengers will be in attendance. So will some of the wealthiest people in the city, as well as international diplomats and politicians. It's a high-threat target."

"You think someone's going to attack it?" Tom asked.

"We've had intelligence that there's a planned bombing," Sitwell replied. "External security's taking care of possible car bombs, and internal security should catch it before it comes in. You four are the backup plan."

"Aw," Smith said, looking disappointed. Moriz just smiled.

"Tonight, you are young executives with Stark Industries," Sitwell continued, handing out fake identification.

"And again, where do I put this?" Darcy asked. Sitwell tossed her a purse. "Is this real Prada?"

"It's real close," he replied. "Officially you're sleepers. Your primary mission is to wait for activation. If you receive notice that the guests and the bomb are both inside, your job is to find the bomb or bomber and neutralize it. If you fail in this primary mission, your secondary mission is to ensure the safe evacuation of the guests should the bomb be detonated. And should you survive, of course," he added. "No pressure."

"Cannon fodder," Tom murmured.

"Very smart cannon fodder in whom we have invested a great deal of time and energy," Sitwell corrected. "You'll be taken to a hotel landside to prepare. A car will pick you up outside the hotel at seven forty-five. Have your ear comms in and checked. You'll have passes to get around security, but once you leave the hotel room, be in character. You are no longer SHIELD agents until you return to it."

"What if security gets the bomb?" Darcy asked.

"Then you enjoy a very expensive meal and some nice music, and get to spend the night in a fancy hotel suite," Sitwell replied. "Your chopper departs in an hour. Research has provided you with the names and dossiers of potential bombers who are attending tonight; I suggest you spend the time between now and the gala studying them."

"Well," Darcy announced, when he was gone. "I feel like a princess."

To be honest, when they got to the hotel and she found a thigh holster with a .22 in it waiting for her, she did, a little.

***

The Stark Gala was certainly evidence of what they'd been training for. Darcy relied on a lot of recently-acquired knowledge to make small talk about investments with one of the other attendees at the table, and managed not to embarrass herself when ordering wine. She saw Agent Barton, with Agent Romanoff on his arm, doing the circuit; Stark wasn't there yet, which wasn't surprising, but it was hard to miss Captain Rogers, half a head taller than nearly anyone else and even hotter in a tux than in his uniform, if such a thing was possible.

"Stop drooling," Tom whispered to her, amused.

"I'll stop drooling when you stop whispering into my cleavage," she replied. "I know it's fantastic but a girl likes to be loved for her mind, Tommy."

"Oh, man, look who just walked in," Tom said, but he did lift his head a little. Darcy glanced at the doorway, affecting boredom, but it was a hard face to keep up. Agent Hill had just walked in, wearing a blue dress that Darcy instantly envied (it was cut wider at the hips than hers; Hill could fit a .45 under that thing and not worry she looked like she was packing). Coulson was behind her, helping her off with her coat, and wearing the requisite tux with a breathtaking level of arrogant grace.

"You think they're the backup of the backup?" Tom asked. "You know. If we fuck it up, they ride in to save the day?"

"Coulson's tight with the Avengers. Stark probably asked him," Darcy said. She watched, eyes narrowed, as Smith walked up to them and exchanged a few words with Coulson -- over their earpieces they heard him assuring Coulson they were all in place and ready to move on the bomber.

Then Stark appeared at the front table, tapping the mic for attention, and she looked away.

Halfway through Stark's speech, they got the word. _Everyone's in. Beta team, it's all yours, there's nothing more we can do here._

"Shit, we're not even to the wandering around after dinner part," Tom said.

 _I've been watching body language,_ Moriz said in their ears. She glanced across the room and saw him pretending to speak quietly to Smith. _I'm reasonably confident it's not a suicide bombing. Nobody seems out of place here and anyone important enough to get in isn't going to die for their cause._

 _Waitstaff are clear,_ Smith said. _I got into the kitchen for long enough to check._

"Which means nobody's planting the bomb until the walking-around part," Tom agreed.

"Everyone look sharp and eat your dinners," Darcy said.

Stark finished his speech, and people stood to applaud; she glanced over and saw Coulson lean in to say something to Hill, who smiled and waved him off. He stepped around his chair and started strolling casually towards the exit.

"Shit," she said. "Moriz."

_What's up?_

"Go say hi to Hill," she said. "Keep her at the table."

_Is the bomber there?_

"Don't tell Hill anything," Darcy replied, standing and bending to kiss Tom on the cheek. "Just going to the bathroom, dear, be right back."

 _Lewis, what the eff's going on?_ Smith asked, just as Hill set her purse on the table and excused herself.

"Abort contact with Hill," Tom said tersely, as Darcy began walking towards the exit, hurrying a little to catch up with Coulson. "Get her purse. Don't open it."

 _Fuck, it's Hill?_ Moriz asked. Darcy ducked behind a column and got eyeballed by a waiter as she hiked up her skirt a little. She considered matters, stepped out of her shoes, and ran the rest of the way to the door, reaching Coulson just as he took down a long jacket and pulled it on.

"Sir, we're going to take a walk," she said, and he paused when he felt the .22 against the small of his back.

"Trainee, are you assaulting a senior agent?" he asked.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck,_ Moriz said in her ear. _The purse is rigged._

 _Get it out of there. I'm on the move,_ Tom replied. _Heading to notify security._

 _I'm on Hill,_ Smith added, and they all heard him say, _Agent Hill, would you come with me please?_

"Your date just tried to assassinate half of high society," Darcy said. "You want to step outside, Agent Coulson?"

Coulson held his hands out at his sides, peaceably, and let her walk him through the front door of the ballroom and out into the cold. The boys were talking in her ear, but she ignored them; she opened her purse, took out a pair of zipties, and cuffed him before seating him on the steps. Smith joined her with Hill a moment later.

"Ohhh, this is fucked up," Tom said, jogging out of the entrance. "Bomb squad's meeting Moriz on the north side of the building."

 _Feeling a little exposed, guys,_ Moriz said. _There are a lot of people on this street._

"Deep breaths, Moriz," Smith said, leading Hill out onto the steps. She was already ziptied.

_Come get this bomb from me and then talk about deep breaths. Where's my bomb squad?_

"Nice night for a walk," a new voice said, and everyone looked up as a tall, broad-shouldered figure emerged from the doorway.

"Hold you position, Moriz," Tom murmured.

 _Holding,_ Moriz said, sounding strained.

"Agent..." the man prompted.

"Smith, sir," Smith said, looking awed.

"Of course," Captain America replied. "May I have your earpiece?"

Smith took his earpiece out and passed it over, while Darcy and Tom stared. Darcy startled back to watching their prisoners when Hill shifted her weight slightly.

"Agent Moriz, yes?" Rogers said, fitting the earpiece in. "This is Captain Steve Rogers. Your team will confirm."

"Confirmed, Moriz, Captain Rogers is on Smith's comm," Darcy said.

 _With all due respect, what the god damn is going on?_ Moriz asked.

Captain Rogers opened his mouth to answer, but Tom beat him to it.

"This was a test, wasn't it?" he asked. "This was our final exam."

"Very good, Agent Fawcett," Coulson said quietly.

"There are no explosives in the purse, Agent," Captain Rogers continued. "The detonator's not hooked up to anything. Come around to the south entrance."

 _Thank god,_ Moriz said, and they heard his breathing pick up as he ran.

Captain Rogers bent down and pulled a knife out of his dress boots, which was both creepy and super-hot. He cut Hill free, then crouched to cut Coulson loose as well. Darcy dropped her hand down to her side, uncertain how to reholster it with any dignity.

"Much obliged, Captain," Coulson said.

"My pleasure. Got me out of the shindig for a minute," Captain Rogers said, handing the earpiece back to Smith. "You need anything else from me?"

"No, we're fine here," Coulson said, as Moriz turned the corner, still carrying the unopened purse.

"In that case I'd better get back in. Agents," Captain Rogers said with a nod, and disappeared back into the party.

"Well," Coulson said, rubbing his wrists. "Congratulations. Nobody died. Fawcett and Moriz with Hill, Smith and Lewis, come with me. We'll debrief at the hotel. Usual procedures apply; please don't speak to each other until after we've taken your reports."

It was a long, silent car ride back to the hotel.

***

They weren't taken back to their suite when they arrived. Instead, Darcy was put in a conference room with a laptop and told to write up her after-action. She saw Tom and Moriz being ushered into other rooms; the last she saw of Smith was Coulson leading him down the hallway.

She recounted the evening as accurately as she could, though she stumbled a little over how to describe Captain America showing up to cut her prisoners loose. She hesitated, also, before mentioning that Trainee Smith had engaged Agent Coulson prior to the incident. It wasn't okay to just give up a guy like that, but on the other hand Coulson knew it had happened, and they all knew he was a stickler for accuracy. Eventually she included it, with a footnote offering a character reference for Smith. She didn't think it was going well for him.

She was just saving her work when the door opened, and Coulson walked in.

"Finish if you need to," he said. "Hill's handling Fawcett and Moriz; you're my last responsibility of the night."

"I'm done."

"Excellent. Save it; I'll review it later."

She looked up at him. "How'd we do?"

"Better than some; not as well as others. You scored a few extra points for being the one to spot the bomb."

"You were listening on our comms."

"Yes, I was. Moriz did well too. It takes a special kind of mind to grab a bag full of explosives and worry about what happens if you take it out on the street. And your friend Fawcett was the first to work out what was really going on."

Darcy sat back. "And Smith?"

Coulson sighed. "We don't give points for effort."

"He did a good job."

He sat down in the chair to her right, turning to study her. "You were told that as soon as you left the hotel, you were no longer SHIELD agents to the outside world. That includes your superiors. He broke protocol, and he gave sensitive information to someone who wasn't involved in the operation. He threatened the lives of a few hundred people. And all to score the attention of the boss." He shook his head. "It's a small infraction, but it's enough. We can't have that kind of error from our Specialists. I understand the urge to defend your cohort, and in time that will be an admirable trait, but you have to be careful who you defend in the meantime."

"Is he out of SHIELD?"

"No. He'll be sent down to Operative level. In time he may be promoted again. As of tonight, however, he's no longer your concern."

"Harsh."

"Necessary." He closed the laptop with one hand. "You passed. He didn't."

Darcy nodded. "Now what?"

"Now you have a day off before your graduation. Officially, I suggest you get some rest. Unofficially, it's traditional to celebrate. Don't break into the minibar," he added. "SHIELD isn't made of money."

"I'm sure we can scavenge something," she replied drily.

"Then I'll leave you to it. Report to HQ tomorrow evening," he said, standing and gathering up the laptop.

"Should I get the dress dry-cleaned, or...?" she asked. He hesitated for a moment, and then an amused smile broke over his face.

"Just turn it in to the quartermaster."

She gave him a salute and he made his way to the door; on the threshold, he turned -- almost as if he shouldn't but couldn't resist. "Specialist Lewis."

"Yes, sir?"

"How's that patriotism coming?"

Darcy looked down at her hands. "Figured you'd know that already."

"Contrary to the carefully constructed illusion, I don't know everything."

"When I saw the fight -- where you -- "

"Yes."

"I thought I should be there. That's...needed. And then when I found out you'd died I thought, well. Someone has to step up when the last guy to step up took it in the throat."

He was silent.

"I don't like some of what we do. But it beats anything else I could have done," she said. 

He nodded. "Goodnight, Darcy."

"G'night, Jackboots," she replied, and heard a low _hah_ from him as he left.

When she got back to the suite, Tom and Moriz were waiting for her.

"Oh my _god_ ," Moriz moaned, laid out on the couch. "We got to meet _Captain America._ "

"He's having a moment," Tom said.

"Captain AMERICA!"

"That was pretty cool," Darcy said, going to her bedroom to undress. "You guys hear about Smith?"

"Suck," Tom pronounced. "But he did kind of blow our entire op."

"How was Hill in the debrief?"

"Fast," Moriz replied. "No bullshit. How was Coulson?"

"About the same. He did suggest unofficially that it's now party time," Darcy added. "And said no drinking from the minibar."

"Well, let's go rip up the town," Tom said, as Darcy unbuckled her thigh holster.

"I know a club near here," Moriz said.

"Done," Darcy agreed, emerging. "But I have to warn you if either of you hits on me tonight I will personally break your fingers."

"Aw man," Moriz said. "I was angling for a victory threesome."

"You are going to angle a long damn time," Tom replied, offering Darcy his arm as Moriz rolled off the couch and went to get his wallet. "Shall we?"

***

When Darcy reported to HQ the following evening, still just a little hungover, she went straight to the quartermaster to drop off the dress.

"Oh, and this too," she added, offering him the holster with the .22 in it. She might buy one for herself, she thought, and then wondered when she stopped thinking that leather bracelets and hoop earrings were the accessories she wanted.

"We don't have it on the returns list," the man said.

"It was checked out yesterday? Should be under Darcy Lewis, maybe Agent Sitwell."

"Oh, right," the man said, and grinned at her. "We were told you might ask about that. It's yours."

"Who said?"

"Agent Coulson said to tell you it's for you."

Darcy looked down at the holster. Tucked in between gun and nylon was a slip of paper that hadn't been there last night when she reholstered her gun.

_Happy Graduation._

She couldn't decide if it was creepy or sweet, but she took it with her anyway, back to her quarters on the Helicarrier. She put the gun in her rack, with her standard sidearm and her fencing equipment, and went to bed.

***

After graduation, she got to go home for a week; back to small-town Ohio, where Mom bragged that Darcy was working for federal law enforcement. The local farmers' kids she'd grown up with took her out to the bar in the next town over, asking questions about New York and SHIELD. She couldn't answer a lot of them. 

"But you've totally met Captain America, right?" one of her friends asked. "I mean. Swoon. Is he nice?"

"I met him once, for five minutes, during my final exam," Darcy said.

"But did you swoon?"

Darcy held up her thumb and forefinger. "Maybe a little."

"Everyone swoons for Captain America," one of the guys said, and the others snickered. "No, I mean it. Don't tell me you aren't impressed, and I know at least one of you has the tatt to prove it."

"Oh my god, who got Captain America ink?" Darcy demanded, as another pitcher of beer was put on the table. "Come on, show it off!"

It was fun. It was good. But they didn't really have any idea of what she did, and she was glad to get back to SHIELD in the end.

"That's how it is," Tom said, when she brought it up. "Why do you think we're all such lonely losers? Nobody on the outside gets it. Or if they do, they don't like putting up with it. Secrecy and stuff."

"So what, my friendship pool is restricted to nerd-grunts like you?"

"I got news for you, your dating pool is too," Tom replied.

"Not dating you," she sang out.

"Wasn't a pass, Lewis," he replied with a grin. "Come on. First briefings today. Little birds being shoved out of the nest for real."

***

Looking back on it, Darcy could have joked that she saw more action during her final exam than she did in the first six months of her actual job. Sometimes she was sent out with Tom and Moriz, but more often she went alone, with a series of handlers that weren't much more senior than she was. It was interesting work, gathering intelligence, occasionally stalking bad guys, but she could tell it was newbie stuff.

Six months in, Thor came back.

It must have been classified because the first she knew about it was when she saw him striding down a hallway on the Helicarrier. She shouldn't have stopped and stared, but she couldn't help it; half of her just wanted to give the big guy a hug but the other half, the SHIELD half, was wondering what was going down that Thor was back on Earth.

He cast a glance her way, calm and regal, swept past her, and then stopped and turned.

"Darcy?" he asked. "Darcy Lewis?"

"Hey, big guy," she said with a hesitant smile, and then found herself swept up into a bear hug that lifted her off her feet and threatened to bruise a few ribs.

"It is fine to see a friendly face!" he crowed, setting her down and resting his hands on her shoulders. "Why are you -- oh!" his eyes took in the SHIELD badge on her Specialist blacks, and he looked stunned. "You have become a _warrior!_ "

"Specialist," she answered shyly.

"But this is magnificent. Why was I not told?"

"You were kinda in Asgard," she said, and then noticed Director Fury standing a few feet away, looking equal parts amused and impatient.

"Indeed I have been too long away from this realm. First I return to find the Son of Coul resurrected, and now this. Are you to be an Avenger, then, like your arms-sister Natasha?"

"Specialist Lewis is a little young for Avenging," Fury said, and Darcy gave him a guilty look. "Thor, we got work to do."

"My apologies; this is no time to delay," Thor said, releasing Darcy's shoulders. "We will speak again," he whispered to her.

"Lewis!" Fury called, turning to walk backwards as they went on.

"Sir?"

"Pull the beekeeper file. You're briefing at fifteen hundred."

"Yes sir," she said, wondering a) how Fury even knew her name and b) where he'd heard about the beekeeper file.

The first was easy to answer with a few minutes of thought; she was an involved party in the New Mexico incident. Coulson was the supervising agent. And Coulson belonged to Fury.

The beekeeper file was harder to parse. It wasn't even a major deal; Research had looked at it and then thrown it back. She and Tom had been in North Dakota, having a look at a restless homegrown militia that had made it onto SHIELD's radar, and she'd seen a man in a bulky yellow suit, like a beekeeper's, leaving the compound, a hood over his head.

"You think they like local honey? I hear that shit's awesome for allergies," Tom had said.

"Do they keep bees in North Dakota?"

"Hell if I know."

"Did that look at all like a radiation suit to you?" she'd asked.

"Shit, you think they're buying plutonium or something?"

"Nothing in the file on it."

Tom had held up a fist over his outstretched palm; she held hers up as well. "One, two, three..."

Tom came up rock; Darcy came up scissors.

"You go after the beekeeper," he said.

"Great. If I get irradiated and turn into a godzilla monster, promise me you'll kill me quickly," she replied, and crept out of the blind they were hiding in, heading for the road.

The beekeeper had led her to an office building a couple of miles away; she hadn't been able to get inside, but she'd scanned it as well as she could.

Frankly, bees were low on SHIELD's watchlist. The office building belonged to some tiny biotech firm, Agriculture In Motion, and the beekeeper probably really was a beekeeper, and maybe just had a pal at the compound or his car broke down or something.

But since then, there had been two beekeeper sightings: one in North Dakota, the other in Montana. Still not enough for SHIELD to get suspicious but enough for Darcy to keep a file without worrying the agency would get pissy about it. And now apparently Director Fury not only knew about the beekeeper file (he did have access to all private servers) but wanted to hear about it.

She was starting to get nervous, sitting in the little office she shared with Tom and Moriz and assembling all the documents for a presentation, when there was a rap on the open door. Coulson leaned in.

"Agent Lewis," he said. "Director Fury said he spoke to you about a briefing at three."

"Yeah, but it's not on my calendar yet," she said, clearing her screen and pointing to her schedule. "I don't know where I'm supposed to go."

"That's fine. I'll escort you there."

"Taking this one seriously, Jackboots?" she asked, raising her eyebrows as she pulled on the grey dress jacket SHIELD issued its Specialists for when they were supposed to look snappy.

"Darcy," he said, and the tone of his voice made her stop and turn to look at him. "You'll be briefing the Avengers."

" _What?_ "

"Director Fury will be there. I need to know that you can be professional for this."

"Because I called you Jackboots? I always call you that."

"Not today," he said seriously.

"So you'll be there?"

"Yes. And so will Thor, and we are both on your side. But so will two members of the World Security Council. And Tony Stark, who is unprofessional enough for everyone in the room. Stark and Captain Rogers are also in a continuing if by now largely ceremonial pissing match with each other -- "

"Those two should fuck and get it over with," Darcy said.

"I need to know that there is at least one other person in the room who is going to behave like an adult," Coulson said.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You brief the Avengers all the time."

"Yes, I'm their handler," he said.

"So why is it so important you have another professional in the room this time?"

"The WSC's impression of us -- "

"Come on, like SHIELD doesn't have the WSC in its pocket right now."

"Where did you hear that?" he asked. She saw a sharpness in his eyes that was almost unsettling.

"It's true, isn't it?"

"I didn't say it wasn't, I asked where you heard it."

"I did some math," she replied. "You disappear for months, you come in hot and rumor goes around you have WSC intel, and then we start getting policy memos. I'm not the only one out there who figured it out."

"The problem with hiring the best and brightest," Coulson sighed, "is that they're bright. Fine. Yes, the WSC is currently very...amenable to SHIELD."

"So? Why am I there? Anyone could take my file and brief them. And why do I have to behave so well?" she asked. "Am I being reviewed on my performance today?"

He took a while answering. "Yes."

"What for?"

"That's above your current clearance level."

"Is someone unsatisfied with my work? My behavior?"

"No. Your work, as I told you and Specialists Fawcett and Moriz it would, has been integral to Avengers activity. The three of you have come to their attention."

A little lightbulb went on.

"This is an _audition_ ," she said. "For what?"

He smiled. "That's also above your current clearance level. Come along; we should get there a few minutes ahead of time."

She picked up her StarkPad and followed him out, down the hallway towards the bridge and the briefing room above it. When they arrived, Thor was there, as were Agents Romanoff and Barton; Captain Rogers was leaning against a wall, and Tony Stark was fidgeting in a chair, fussing with a StarkPad.

Thor bounded over to her.

"My friends!" he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "This is she of whom I spoke! Darcy Lewis of the tazer, falsifier of identification, great friend of Jane Foster."

"Yeah, we met like, years ago, keep up," Stark said, barely looking up from the screen he was working on. "Watching your forks, Lewis?"

"Yes, Mr. Stark."

"You're D. Lewis?" Captain Rogers asked, pushing away from the wall.

"Yes, Captain," she replied.

"I read your reports -- I thought you were a man," Captain Rogers blurted, and then looked embarrassed. "Sorry, that's rude."

"In this sausagefest, I'm not shocked," Agent Romanoff said. "Specialist."

"Agent Romanoff," Darcy replied. Agent Barton just gave her a brief nod. Thor hugged her against him sideways.

"Yes, the puppy is cute, now let go of her," Fury said, sweeping into the room. There was a nerdy-looking guy following him; Darcy peered at him for a second before identifying him as Dr. Banner, whom she'd never encountered in person before. He didn't come on the Helicarrier much. Thor loosened his grip on Darcy's shoulders, and she stepped aside, back into the shadows at the edge of the room.

"Waitin' on you, Fury," Stark said, leaning back.

"For once in your life," Coulson said drily.

"You know, near death is only going to get you so much leeway -- "

Fury snapped his fingers. Even Stark shut up. A screen nearby flickered on, showing the darkened silhouettes of two World Security Council members.

"As you're aware, Thor returned to Earth last night," he said, walking to the front of the room and sweeping his hand across the presentation podium, lighting up the screen behind him. "He has some concerns about some unauthorized transdimensional activity."

"Not it," Dr. Banner murmured. Stark grinned at him.

"Asgard has experienced several minor disturbances. What you would call earthquakes," Thor said. "Rifts appearing in reality. Brief and not dangerous, so far, but my father is concerned. They have been growing stronger."

"And this," Fury said, tapping the screen, "is what they're seeing on the other side."

An image came up behind him, a beautifully drawn illumination, almost medieval. A tall man operating some kind of delicate device...

...wearing a bulky, bright yellow suit.

"Ah," Darcy said softly.

"Is that true to life?" Captain Rogers asked, turning to Thor.

"I have not seen these creatures myself," Thor said. "But those who have say they were speaking English to each other. English is a Midgardian language. Thus..." he gestured at the table. "I am here."

"SHIELD has been tracking a group who fits this description," Fury said, which Darcy thought was a little...inflated. "Agent Lewis."

"Sir," Darcy said, and everyone looked at her with renewed interest. Fury gestured to the podium. Darcy had to walk past two of the greatest minds of their generation, plus Captain America and the head of SHIELD, to get there. She felt about twelve years old.

Once she reached the podium and fired up her presentation, though, she forgot to be nervous. She'd been carefully building this casefile for months, and she hadn't ever expected it to be particularly relevant -- but Captain Rogers was taking notes, and Mr. Stark was at least half-paying-attention, and Agent Romanoff was studying each image and report carefully.

"In summary," she said, darkening the display screen, "we really don't know very much. Until now, Agriculture In Motion has been fairly low-priority compared to other threats in the area, let alone the country. I have some leads we can start on, if we want to raise the threat level on this file, but that's not something I have the seniority to authorize."

"Fortunately, I do," Fury said. He glanced at the WSC councilmembers. One of them nodded; the other gestured for him to continue. "First order of business is to figure out where these rifts are coming from and shut them down."

"Uhhhh," Mr. Stark said, and everyone looked at him. He was looking at his screen thoughtfully. "Stark Holdings has investments in Agriculture In Motion. One of the green initiative things Pep was so hot for."

"Pep, right," Dr. Banner murmured.

"Well, so, I could be funding transdimensional terrorists, sorry about that, I swear I read the prospectus," Stark said. "But this could also be a foot in the door. If I say I want a tour of their site -- "

"Yeah, that's not going to look suspicious," Fury said. "An Avenger taking a sudden interest in them right after they fire their Rip A Hole In The Universe Machine."

"So we can ask Pepper -- wait, no, I promised her I'd keep it to two life-threatening events per year."

"You're over quota," Captain Rogers said.

"Oh, for her, not me. I'm allowed to risk my life as much as I like provided I don't die."

"Just out of curiosity, what happens if you do die?" Agent Barton asked.

"Pepper gets custody of you guys."

"If we could return to the point," Fury said. "I'm not sending an untrained civilian in to cover the fact that Stark can't keep a goddamn secret identity."

"We're not cleared for undercover anymore," Agent Barton said. "And Thor doesn't have the chops -- sorry, big guy."

Thor waved it off.

"Well, that leaves me," Bruce said, "with no visible interest in agriculture. Or Steve."

Captain Rogers shrugged. "Might be nice to go on a mission where I'm not throwing someone through a wall." There was a moment of hesitation, and then he said, "Does this mean I get a disguise?"

Even Darcy paused.

"Director Fury, I think we have all we need to know," said one of the WSC councilmembers. "Keep us appraised of the situation."

"Of course," Fury said, and the screens winked out. "Coulson -- "

"I'll coordinate Dr. Banner and Captain Rogers for infiltration of the Agriculture In Motion primary site. Everyone else, please remain on standby; Thor, I'll want to speak to you about how long you're staying on Earth."

"Of course, Son of Coul," Thor said. "Darcy may debrief me, if you prefer."

"Good. Agent Lewis, report to me when you're done with Thor."

"And that's dismissed," Stark announced. "And I am late for a management meeting, well done. Rogers, you want to hitch a ride topside?"

Captain Rogers nodded, following Stark out.

"How exactly does he go undercover?" Darcy murmured to Coulson. "He's a super soldier. I bet he smells like apple pie."

"Watch and learn," Coulson replied. "But right now, talk to Thor."

"Did I pass my audition? Will there be callbacks?"

"Still above your clearance level. See me when you're done with Thor. Go feed him. The grunts could use some entertainment and Thor in the canteen is always good for a laugh."

***

Darcy figured she'd probably passed her mystery audition when, two days after the briefing, she was summoned to the identification office on landside HQ to have a new badge issued. This one listed her as a level four, when before she'd been a level two.

"Security clearance, bitches!" she announced to Tom and Moriz, when she returned to the Helicarrier with her new badge. She slapped it on the table and they grinned at her.

"So you're the one we have to thank," Moriz said.

"For what?"

"Tom's just been put in command of a twenty-man operations unit deploying on a classified mission day after tomorrow," Moriz said. "I'm head of operational security for the mission. Neither of us know what the fuck."

"Who's the handler?"

Tom leaned in, lowering his voice. "Agent Coulson."

Darcy sat back. "Yeah. I think I probably am the one you have to thank. I do accept cash, also chocolate."

"Our guardian angel," Tom said. "Hitchin' my wagon to your star, Lewis."

"Follow me, baby, and you'll go places," Darcy replied, just as Tom and Moriz jumped to their feet. She turned and rose, seeing Coulson approaching the table.

"Well, this is convenient," he said, tone clear he knew it wasn't exactly a surprise.

"Guess I got the role," Darcy told him, picking up her badge.

"You'll need that," he agreed. "The three of you are to report to the hangar bay at 0900 tomorrow. Fawcett, bring your troop. Moriz, make the arrangements. We'll brief on the way. You'll be escorting Dr. Banner and Captain Rogers, so try to pretend you're professionals. Agent Lewis, you'll be on surveillance with me. Check out two passive earwigs and the appropriate equipment."

"Sir," Darcy said, so sincerely that he narrowed his eyes at her before nodding.

"See you at 0900," he said, and left. Tom exhaled.

"This is _so awesome_ ," Moriz breathed.

"Try not to get too starry-eyed," Darcy said.

"Do _not_ ask him for his autograph," Tom added.

"I hear Coulson did," Moriz sulked.

"And when you have a level seven clearance, my little level two, you can ask Captain Rogers to do inappropriate things," Darcy replied.

"She's awfully proud for someone who's been a level four for ten minutes," Moriz said to Tom.


	9. Clint Barton Joins SHIELD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For her birthday this year, I said I would write Arsenic a story specifically to her tastes. This was my first attempt, which failed; my second attempt became the fic "If I Don't Wake Up Dead". 
> 
> Warnings for descriptions of torture and PTSD.
> 
> (Clint/Coulson if you squint.)

Contrary to popular belief and the myth Clint liked to propagate in his spare time, he wasn't brought into SHIELD by Phil Coulson. It was just that by the time he was notorious enough at SHIELD to be noticed, Coulson had laid a firm claim to him, so people assumed Phil had recruited him.

Phil did nothing to counteract the assumption; it helped him shield a fellow agent from attention and it made his claim to Clint very clear, so he (for once) encouraged Clint's dramatic flair for the mysterious. Clint tended to tell people Coulson had found him using a ouija board and a complicated computer matching program.

The truth went more like this.

Clint was ziptied wrist and ankle, with chains running from his joined wrists to a nearby (fortunately cold) radiator, when the door at the other end of the room opened and a man in a black uniform was thrown inside. Of everything that could have happened when the door opened, this was probably the best option.

The other man landed hard on one shoulder and lay on his side panting for what Clint counted was about five minutes before he moved, curling in on himself and groaning. He didn't have his hands or legs bound, which seemed unfair.

Clint watched and waited. You never knew what might be a trap. Slowly, the man pulled himself up to sitting.

"Hey," he said. The man startled and turned to him sharply. "Easy. I'm not one of them."

The man was Asian, or Asian-American. A bad thing to be in the makeshift prison of a white supremacist militia.

"So," Clint said, drawing his legs up to give the guy more room to shift around. "You trying to rob them too, or did they just pick you up for some fun?"

The man spat and cleared his throat.

"You speak English?" Clint asked.

The man rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I speak English," he said. He sounded like he might be from New York.

"Hey, sorry, just checking. Clint Barton," Clint added. "I'd offer to shake..."

"Jimmy Woo," the man replied. "Do I even want to know what you were trying to steal from these punks?"

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," Clint said.

"Mine's bigger," Woo replied.

"You ain't seen mine."

Woo laughed hoarsely. "Great, they put me in with a comedian."

Which was when the head of the militia threw the door open again. Woo curled into a ball with his spine to Clint, which was pretty smart. Clint made a split-second decision and dislocated his thumbs to shed the cuffs, which hurt like a motherfucker and gave him just enough of an adrenalin rush to dive for the asshole in the paramilitary fatigues.

He wasn't looking to escape, though that would have been nice. He was just looking to distract.

Clint was a liar, a thief, a "violent individual" according to police reports, and an asshole. He knew he only had one redeeming quality, but it was a big one: he was hardwired to protect the innocent. He couldn't control it any more than he could his eye color. Six years with his father and four in the orphanage, eight in the circus and five on his own should have taught him the opposite, but there was no accounting for human nature. He saw a white supremacist, and a guy named Woo in one room, and he did what he usually did in situations like this.

He got the shit kicked out of him.

The guy in fatigues punched Clint in the stomach, which he'd been expecting. Clint doubled over and latched onto his forearm with his teeth. There was a scream of rage and someone else grabbed him; he got another punch, this one slightly less expected, and then foul breath in his face.

"You want to see what we do to thieves?" someone asked him.

Mercifully, that was the last he remembered for a while.

***

When he woke up, he was back in the room again, with an eye swollen shut and no shirt. He was bound again to the radiator, this time with a thick chain around his neck. He could tell he was bleeding in a couple of places. His hands felt all right, and his arms -- his wrists weren't bound. And his dick was still there, so all in all, could be worse.

He cracked his good eye open and found Woo kneeling in front of him, nudging a bowl of water forward with one knee.

"You're up," Woo said.

"Regrettably," Clint mumbled.

"Good, you can decide," Woo indicated the bowl of water with a nod. "I can try and clean you up with this or we can drink it."

Clint lolled his head down to look at the water. It looked...impure, at best.

"External infection or internal?" Woo asked with a slight smile.

"Ain't that thirsty yet," Clint said.

Woo nodded. He tore off a strip of his shirt and soaked it in the water, touching it to Clint's head before cleaning the blood off his ribs and shoulders.

"So are you bughouse crazy or just stupid?" he asked, as he worked.

"They're Nazis," Clint replied.

"I'm aware."

"You're not white."

"A fact which has been repeatedly driven home to me over my life," Woo said with a dry look.

Clint held his gaze. "They wouldn't hit a white man as hard."

"Well, thanks, great pale face, for saving this poor unworthy Chinaman," Woo drawled.

"They just picked you up to have some fun with you, right? Wouldn't be the first time. Better me than you."

Woo leaned in close under cover of dabbing blood out from behind Clint's ear.

"I'm a government agent," he said. "Don't do me any favors. I'm not the civilian here."

Clint turned his head slightly. "You FBI?"

"SHIELD."

"The fuck's that?"

"Tell you later." Woo leaned back, wringing out the bloody rag and dipping it in the water again. He pressed it over Clint's wounded eye, and even the lukewarm wetness was a relief. "What are they going to do with us?"

"Dunno."

"What were you stealing?"

Clint set his jaw.

"Hey, white man, I showed you mine."

"You're right," Clint said. "Yours is bigger."

"So?"

Clint groaned and tried to sit up straighter, prevented by the chain. "Neo-nazis don't trust banks."

"Ironic, when you think about it."

"They got cash. Easy to carry, easy to clean."

"Holding up a bank might have been smarter."

"Not nearly as satisfying," Clint replied.

"So what, you run around the country robbing militias?"

"It's not the worst career in the world."

"It's not a career at all. It's a TV movie."

"Always wanted to be in pictures."

Woo shook his head. "Well, you have balls. You get a good look at where they're holding us?"

Clint raised a hand and tapped the uninjured half of his head. "Blueprints. More or less."

"If I break us out, can you lead me clear? They picked me up when I was still outside the compound."

"Caught you spying?"

"My snitch sold me out."

Clint let his hand fall to rattle the chain around his neck. "Get me out of this and I can get you out of here."

"It'll take time," Woo said.

"I haven't got anywhere to be."

"Well, a hospital might not go amiss."

"Hospitals are for losers."

Woo raised an eyebrow, but set the cloth aside and looked down at the bowl of dirty water.

"Bottoms up," Clint said. "It's all yours, Woo."

"Call me Jimmy. It's Clint, right?"

"Sure," Clint said, and passed out.

***

They spent three days in the compound, at least by Clint's reckoning. The second day, they took Jimmy, and Clint let them; it wasn't like he could dislocate his head to get out of the chain, and if Jimmy Woo was a federale of some kind, he could take it. Clint didn't like it, but he didn't really have a choice.

He was expecting not to see Jimmy again. When he did, he was surprised to find him mostly whole, and carrying a second bowl of water. Clint didn't notice the blood dripping down his fingers until Jimmy had given him half the water in sips.

"The fuck?" he asked, pulling his head away, trying to duck it to see his hands. Jimmy carefully put the bowl down. Every fingernail was gone.

"I'm told they grow back," he said calmly, but his face said he was in more pain than he was letting on.

Clint picked up the bowl and let Jimmy drink the rest, holding it carefully. When he was done, he settled against the radiator, next to Clint. It looked like a couple of his fingers were broken, too.

"Hope you used your time wisely," Jimmy said.

"Oh, you know. Did some laundry, called my mom."

"You got any ideas for getting us out of here?"

"Is the chain padlocked?" Clint asked.

"Yep. Back of your neck."

"Thought it felt heavy. You any good with locks?"

"Nothing to pick it with."

Clint looked around. The room they were in was bare cement, smooth and well-poured. The walls, he knew, were cinderblock covered in plaster. A hole in the plaster would be noticed. Neither of them had their belts.

The roof was just tarpaper, and he thought he could probably lift Jimmy out even if he couldn't get out himself, but the chain prevented him from getting enough height. He'd have to stand on the radiator anyway, and he might have done his share of acrobatics but Jimmy probably couldn't maintain footing on his shoulders if Clint was climbing.

"Next time, I go," he said. Jimmy looked at him.

"I don't think we get to pick," he replied.

"Play dead. Let 'em kick you a few times. A conscious target's more fun," Clint advised.

"How often exactly do you do this?" Jimmy asked.

"Not that often, but I been around the block."

"Which block is that?"

"The block that led to my glamorous life of crime," Clint retorted.

"You sure you can get something while they're kicking your ass?"

"Reasonably. Done it before."

"You know odds are they'll kill you."

"They haven't yet."

"Yeah, and I wonder why that is," Jimmy said thoughtfully.

***

Clint suspected their captors were sadists, and they were keeping them alive as long as possible just to see how long they could. If they didn't feed either man, sooner or later they might turn on each other. He'd seen men do it with dogs before -- put two hungry dogs in a cage together and wait to see which one came out. Rather, he'd seen them try it with dogs; after robbing them blind he'd fed the dogs and taken them to a shelter, leaving the owners tied together in a warehouse where someone would probably find them before they starved. (Probably.)

Clint liked dogs. You know where you stood with a dog. Someday he'd like to have one. Maybe a couple. Someday.

He thought about dogs during the sound asskicking that took place on the third day. Maybe he'd get a little wiener dog. He'd heard they were stubborn and went after prey twice their size. A little wiener dog and a corgi, corgis were like half a foot tall and herded sheep. And maybe a great dane. Great danes were beautiful and big enough nobody messed with them. Clint harbored a secret, probably false belief that only truly elegant people owned great danes. He could be elegant if he wanted, he was shit-full of elegance.

He was considering what he would name a great dane, if he got one, while they were holding him up by his hair and promising him just a few more kicks. One minute he was struggling to stand, to get the weight of his body off his scalp, and then there was a boom like the wrath of a god Clint didn't believe in, and the pain was gone. There was a second boom and people started yelling.

Clint shook off the lethargy of the beating and looked around; men were running towards a doorway at the far end, where he could see the yellow flashes of gunfire. He staggered into the shadows and then back the way he'd come, glad they hadn't bound him once they'd really gone to town. He could find the door by counting his paces. It was barred from the outside, but he hauled the bar up and slid back a pair of bolts.

On the other side, Jimmy was already standing, dusting himself down.

"Our ride's here," he said.

"Who do you work for again?" Clint asked.

"Come on," Jimmy ordered, hauling one of Clint's arms over his shoulder. "We're getting out of here, peckerwood."

"Imma make you pay for that one," Clint replied, but he went obediently where Jimmy steered him.

World War Three had broken out somewhere nearby, and there were already casualties. They tripped over a body and Jimmy made a pleased noise, patting the man down. He came up with two .38s and a .45.

"You know how to shoot?" he asked. Clint nodded and took one of the .38s. "You leave anything important behind?"

"Just my bow," Clint said. "I can get another one."

"Bow?"

"Recurve."

"Well, that's quaint."

"I like bows," Clint said, aware he was babbling from shock. "Silent. Elegant."

"Old," Jimmy replied. Clint twisted away from him, and Jimmy protested until he saw Clint whip the .38 up and knock down a pair of Nazis with two shots. He sighted three more on a catwalk above, shot them in the balls of their feet, and grinned at Jimmy.

"Gimme the other one, this one's tapped," he said.

They didn't actually run into any other enemies on the way out, and when they got outside there were a pair of helicopters and a lot of men in tac vests.

Clint made another split-second decision and mocked a stumble. Jimmy caught him, then eased him down.

"Stay here," he said. "I'll get medical to get you."

"Sure," Clint replied.

Jimmy ran off, towards the helicopters. After a count of ten, Clint got up silently, barely limping, and slipped away into the shadows.

***

Two days later, Clint Barton admitted to himself that he might have a problem.

He was, at least, clean and well-fed, holed up in a hotel room he'd rented with the cash he'd managed to carry out of the compound before Jimmy's shadowy government agency blew the place up. He'd gotten out with his life, his bow, and a hundred thousand in cash, so he called it a win.

On the other hand, he was starting to run a low fever, and one of the cuts on his ribcage was festering. He kept dosing it with hydrogen peroxide, hoping it would clean out, but he knew the signs of a bad infection. He needed antibiotics.

Jimmy's people were good. They'd decimated the militia without a peep; when Clint turned on the TV after some basic self-doctoring and eighteen hours of sleep there wasn't a single word about the battle. He'd been expecting nonstop news coverage.

They'd be looking for him, and they'd have hospitals and clinics staked out. Clint hated doctors anyway; they always eyeballed you like they knew you'd been up to something, and they never warned you how much anything was going to cost.

It was a miracle the hotel staff hadn't ratted him out already. He'd have to move on soon. The hundred grand would set him up enough to consider some really serious jobs, maybe even go into mercenary work, but he'd still have to be sparing.

He considered his options. He could boost a car and drive out of state, down into Chicago, and disappear into the city. He could run for Canada, but he still had some pretty spectacular bruises on his face. He could move to a new hotel and sit tight, but that would drain his finances. He tried to think if he had any connections in Chicago, but no names came up. He had a couple of buddies in New York, but he wasn't ready to put up with Mozzie's crazy again. He could try and rob a pharmacy.

He could sleep some more, since the room was unkindly spinning....

***

The next time, he woke himself coughing. Someone was leaning over him and he struck out immediately, but they _dodged_.

"Easy, cowboy," a familiar voice said. Something plastic was pressed to his lips. "Drink."

Clint had no choice; he opened his mouth to talk, and water flowed in instead. He sputtered and then swallowed, and the cold water did feel good.

"Jimmy," he said, when the cup eased away. In the dark hotel room, Jimmy was leaning over him, holding up his head with one hand. "How'd you find me?"

"Ve haff vays," Jimmy said, in a terrible German accent. "By the way, this is going to sting."

"What -- you motherfu -- " Clint said as the needle went in, and then the lights went out.

***

When he woke up again, he knew where he was. Nowhere else smells like a hospital.

He slitted his eyes, but the room was dark and he couldn't see much anyway. While he waited patiently to pick out details, he heard the beep of a heart monitor, and felt an IV in his wrist. Slowly he became aware that nobody else was in the room; that he was, in fact, in a _private hospital room._

Well, there when his hundred fucking grand.

He shifted and sat up, and the lights went on.

"Jesus crumpled Christ," he yelped, covering his eyes with the hand that _didn't_ have a needle in it. He could hear his accent revert, as it always did when he was startled, to the cheap country twang of his youth. "Fuckin' do that for?"

"Told you he was slippery," Jimmy said, and Clint lowered his hand, blinking in the light. "Good morning, Clint."

Jimmy was in a business suit, a really nice one, probably tailored.

"Nice tie," Clint said.

"Thanks," Jimmy said calmly. There was another guy next to him, in an equally nice suit, studying a file.

"I was talking to him," Clint said. The man's eyes flicked up to him, and he gave him a small smile. Clint noted that he was not, in fact, handcuffed to anything anywhere, which was at least something.

"Versaci," the man said.

"Bless you."

"Yes, he does," the man agreed. Clint blinked at him owlishly. The man went back to his file. "Clinton Francis Barton. Born in Waverly, Iowa. Trailer park, orphanage, eight or nine missing years, and then the arrest warrants start. What an interesting life you've led, Clinton."

"Well, it was this or interpretive dance," Clint replied.

"I'm sure you left your leotard behind in the compound. You're wanted in, let's see, five states for robbery, two more for assault, though reading between the lines -- "

"He started it," Clint said.

"Jimmy says you're a pretty good shot."

"I wouldn't trust him, he's a narc," Clint replied.

"Nevertheless, your bow is very well cared-for."

Clint sat up a little straighter. His bow-case was in a corner of the room, along with the duffle bag containing all his earthly belongings and the paper sack in which he was toting the hundred grand.

The man took a book out of his pocket, Clint's battered and much-thumbed book. "Julius Caesar. Odd reading for a man like you."

"I keep it around to impress the ladies."

That earned him a knowing smile. "Mmhm."

"You wanna tell me what all this is about, or am I free to go?" Clint asked, shifting to sit on the side of the bed. He was in a hospital gown, but he'd done more with less.

"Well, that depends," Jimmy told him.

"On what?" Clint asked.

"There are a couple of state troopers outside," Jimmy said. "They're very interested in your history. As is my friend here."

"More of a boss, really," the other man said modestly.

"Aw, we're friends, aren't we?" Jimmy asked.

"You owe me ten dollars," the man replied. "Pay up and then we're friends."

"Yeah, the Laurel and Hardy act is getting old," Clint replied, hissing as his feet touched the cold hospital floor. He decided to try walking to his duffel bag, and neither of them stopped him. "Spit it out or send me up."

"The men outside your door could arrest you," Jimmy said. "Or they could escort all three of us out to a car and wave goodbye as we sweep you off to a life of unrestrained violence and interesting adventure."

"I ain't really that much on violence, my report card sayin' otherwise," Clint said.

"What Jimmy means to say is that he's impressed with your aim and your resourcefulness, and the spark of human kindness he suspects lurks beneath your arrest warrants," the other man said. "We'd like to offer you a job."

Clint, bent over his bag, covered a grunt of pain with a laugh. "For what, that fed agency you work for? I don't pass background checks."

"You don't have a college degree either, but fortunately we're not like the three-letter boys," the man said. "The Stragetic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division would like to pay you to raise a little hell on our behalf. As you're freelancing in hellraising at the moment, you could see this as an exceptional career move."

Clint shrugged out of the hospital gown and pulled on a pair of reasonably clean underwear. "As opposed to prison?"

"Something like that."

"What makes you think I don't have an escape plan?" Clint asked. He tried to put his pants on, and pain lanced up his side.

"That," the man said, pointing to his bandaged wounds.

"Some thanks, Jimmy Woo, for helping save your life," Clint snapped.

"I figure the hundred grand covered that," Jimmy replied.

Clint straightened carefully, deciding not to even try pulling a shirt over his head. "What's the catch?"

"No catch," Jimmy said.

"I am authorized to sweeten the deal," the other man said. "You give us six months, and your arrest warrants go away. Clean slate. Call it a probationary period."

"I don't need your probation," Clint retorted.

"Oh, not for you," the man said. "For us. Try us out for six months. You don't like it, you can walk away."

"Bum deal for you."

"Well, we're betting big on you not walking away," Jimmy said.

Clint turned to face them, hands on his hips. "What if I don't make it six months with you?"

"Interesting wording," the man said.

"We cut you loose," Jimmy replied. "You don't get a clean slate, but we'll let you go. That said, when some other law enforcement agency catches up with you, and you know they will, nobody's coming to save you."

"Nobody's ever coming to save me," Clint said, rolling his eyes.

"I did," Jimmy replied quietly.

Clint paused at that. Because yeah, he might have drugged and kidnapped him, but he put him in a hospital and didn't steal his money or his bow.

"Six months," he said suspiciously.

"Free and clear," the man replied. "Starting now, if you'd like to get out of here."

Clint nodded. "Can't be any worse than prison."

"You know, I might have fingernails again by the time probation ends," Jimmy said to the other man, who handed him the folder with Clint's life in it.

"He's all yours, Woo. Don't fuck him up," the man told him, and left.

"I don't think I caught his name," Clint said, as Jimmy picked up the duffel bag and bow, politely leaving Clint to carry the cash.

"Oh, don't worry," Jimmy replied. "You'll learn it eventually. Get your shoes on, in two hours I'm gonna blow your mind."

***

Two hours later, the tiny, sleek jet they were riding in landed on a flying aircraft carrier.

"Yeah, okay," Clint said, as they landed. "Mind officially blown."

***

Jimmy found him a small room in the barracks level of the Helicarrier, complete with a secure locker for his money ("You know the paymaster can -- " "Kiss my ass is what the paymaster can do."), a computer just sitting there on the desk like they didn't expect him to steal it, and a temporary ID that gave him access to the mess and, eventually, the firing range. It was cute they thought he'd need an ID.

"You're on mandatory medical leave for the week," Jimmy said, as Clint fiddled with the ID and wondered how much a meal in the mess cost. "There's a rules and regs book in your dresser. Learn it. Basic starts as soon as you're steady on your feet. You can check out firearms at the range, but you won't be issued one yet. See the quartermaster for a uniform, anything else you need. You have any allergies, special medications...?"

"Nah," Clint said, holding up the bottle of antibiotics Jimmy had given him.

"Mess opens at four in the morning, stays open till eight at night. Coffee's available 24/7. Oh," Jimmy added, handing Clint a phone. "Your cellphone. Keep it on you, in case someone needs to reach you. My number's pre-programmed."

It wasn't that impressive, compared to the smartphones that would be emerging into the market in a few years, but Clint held it carefully, aware he was cradling a couple hundred dollars' worth of technology.

"You're basically on a long leash," Jimmy continued. "Learn your way around. Make some friends. When you're ready to start training, call me."

"That's it?" Clint asked.

"We don't hand-hold at SHIELD. Besides, we're at twenty thousand feet. Where are you gonna go?"

"Yeah, point," Clint said, still staring at the phone.

"Hey," Jimmy said, and Clint looked up. "It doesn't seem like it right now, but trust me. _This_ is the thanks you get for saving my life. I don't take that kind of thing lightly. None of us do."

Clint nodded.

"Seeya round, Barton," Jimmy said, and left Clint alone in his new home.

He spent a while unpacking, not that there was much to unpack. He might have rescued his bow, but his quiver had been a lost cause, the arrows inside it snapped by the time he got to it. His clothes, of course -- he'd have to figure out where you did laundry on this thing -- and the framed photo of him and Barney, two hollow-cheeked, sandy-haired kids with mischief in their eyes. They'd clearly gone through his stuff but they hadn't taken his burglary kit or his good knives. Even his copy of Julius Caesar was back in the bag where it belonged. His false IDs were missing, but he couldn't really begrudge 'em that. They were shitty work anyway.

When he couldn't stall any longer, he shoved a couple of twenties from his cash stash into his pocket and went looking for the mess. It wasn't hard to find -- he followed the smell of boiled water, industrial-grade cooking, and garlic until he found a large, open room full of people in identical black uniforms.

He got a tray and loaded up -- couple of apples, some granola bars, stuff he could stash in his room if need be. A big bowl of stroganoff, bread rolls, some butter, a little single-serving jug of milk and a paper cup of coffee...

He looked around, in vain, for a cashier.

"Whatcha lookin' for?" someone asked at his elbow. He turned to see a small, muscular woman nearby, watching him.

"Where do I pay?" he asked, embarrassed. She frowned.

"Are you new?"

"Yeah, sorry, I just..."

"Food's free," she said.

"Free?"

"Sure. Comes with the shitty salary and dangerous workload."

"Oh," he said, looking down at his tray. "All of it?"

"Yeah, all of it," she said with a grin.

"Even the coffee?"

"If they made us pay for coffee there'd be a mutiny," she said. "Eat up, handsome. It's on the house," and she was off, weaving through the tables, headed for a group of friends who were clearly waiting for her.

Clint very carefully carried his food to a corner, where he could put his back to the wall and watch the room. He didn't really believe it wasn't some kind of trick until he'd inhaled the entire bowl of stroganoff and sopped up the remaining gravy with his bread.

Nobody had mentioned _the free food._

***

It turned out just about everything on the Helicarrier was free. You didn't need coins for your laundry and you could get anything you wanted from the quartermaster. There _was_ a little store that sold smokes and alcohol and DVDs and stuff, but if you needed soap or shampoo or razors you just said "Hey, I need some of that" to the quartermaster and signed the register and boom, free stuff.

"Is this what it's like in the army?" Clint asked Jimmy, a few days later. They were sitting together in the mess, Jimmy watching him put away his third slice of pie with something approaching awe. "Everything's free 'cause you get shot at? I shoulda joined up. I mean, I got shot at anyway."

"So glad to see you coming out of your shell," Jimmy said.

"Who pays for all of it?"

"Your tax dollars. Well, probably not _your_ tax dollars, but theoretical tax dollars you would have paid if you'd ever had gainful legal employment. Where the hell are you putting all the food you just ate? You're like a stray cat. The food will still be there tomorrow, Clint."

"Touch this pie and I will stab you," Clint said calmly.

"You're sounding well on the way to good health," Jimmy observed.

"Yeah, I was thinking, what's Basic like? Because I have my GED, you know, and I'm pretty good at tests. I was thinking maybe we just cut to the chase."

Jimmy gave him a look. "You want to test out of basic training."

"Can I do that?"

"Anywhere else, no. Here, maybe. I'll ask around." Jimmy frowned slightly. "Clint, I feel like I should tell you this."

"What?" Clint asked.

"You know that along with skills assessment we have to do a psychiatric evaluation."

Clint tilted his head.

"You should be aware I'm going to be the one to write it," Jimmy continued.

"Yeah? Are you a shrink?"

"My BA was in psychology. There are probably more qualified people on the Helicarrier, but I think I know you better than they do," Jimmy said.

"Okay, so? What's the big deal?"

"Most people find psych evals a little...personal. Part of the goal is to make sure your eventual supervising agent is aware of your flaws."

"Well, introduce me, they'll figure it out."

"It's not quite that simple. You play your cards pretty close," Jimmy said. "One of the agents mentioned you thought you had to pay for your food."

"Snitch."

Jimmy rubbed his face. "See, this is what I mean. We look after each other here. I know you've been in a group home, so you've been in a dynamic like this before, but we're different. She was concerned first about who you were, and second that nobody had properly explained to you how we work. Which was my fault -- I made some assumptions. We are a large institution, yes, but we're not competing for resources. We're cooperating. Now, someone who doesn't know you wouldn't know that you..." he gestured to the empty pie plate, "...you have some issues with food."

"It's not the food, it's the free," Clint told him.

"Look, the point is, she didn't tattle on you to the boss. You're not going to be punished for eating as much as you want. She was protecting her people from some stranger on the Helicarrier, and she had a secondary interest in protecting you, because if you didn't know that, what else might you not know?"

"That's not _really_ the point," Clint said. Jimmy frowned.

"What do you think the point is?"

"I dunno. You tell me. What's the point of you telling me you're going to tell someone all my flaws?"

"Ah. The point of that is simply to be honest with you."

"Why?"

"Because I want you to trust me."

"I gotta say, that in itself makes me somewhat suspicious."

"Yes, _that_ I expected," Jimmy said, looking a little amused. "Clint, you have a very knifelike way of getting down to the basics."

"Got no time for anything else," Clint said.

"Well, anyway. I'm going to speak to a few people about giving you some skills assessments and we'll go from there. I'd like you to report here," Jimmy said, passing him a slip of paper, "At 0600 tomorrow. Have you got your uniforms from the quartermaster yet?"

"Sure."

"Be in uniform, and bring your bow."

"Haven't got any arrows for it right now."

"That'll be taken care of. See you tomorrow morning," Jimmy said, standing. "Exciting times, Clint."

"Sure. You know how I crave excitement."

***

Clint, like many people undergoing a major life upheaval, didn't remember a lot of his training with SHIELD afterwards. It seemed like there was a clear delineation: Before SHIELD and After SHIELD, and not much recalled in the way of transition. He was an ex-carnie thief, and then a blur, and then he was an agent. Well, you couldn't test out of everything.

He did remember, vividly, the first day Jimmy put him on the firing range. He remembered the increasing look of confusion and concern on the range master's face as he fired perfect rounds with small arms, large arms, and then a sniper rifle set at the furthest distance the range would allow. He remembered Jimmy giving him some really high-quality, top-of-the-line arrows, by which point a small crowd had gathered at the observation glass to watch him shoot. He did one of his favorite tricks, because he'd seen Robin Hood do it in a Disney flick as a little kid -- he fired wide, then drew and fired a second shot to correct it. The first arrow hit dead-center; the second one hit the wall just above the observation glass.

"Let's try the obstacle course," Jimmy said over the loudspeaker.

"You have an _obstacle course?_ " Clint asked, trying to hide his excitement.

The obstacle course was the best thing he'd ever had: running, jumping, climbing, hiding, and shooting, all at once. He ran it with his bow -- Jimmy gave him the option -- and only had to stop once, briefly, when a tear gas mine went off. He got out of range fast enough that he only snotted up for a minute. It was like the circus and stealing _combined._ He felt he'd never get tired of it and, in later years, that proved to be the case.

He came out of the course in an adrenalin rush, and found that people had been watching him on a big television monitor in the exit room. Money was exchanging hands. Jimmy clapped him on the back and gave him a washcloth to clean his face off with.

"Hey, Barton, where the hell'd you learn to shoot like that?" someone called.

Clint was opening his mouth to answer when he realized everyone had gone silent. A door had opened and the man from before, in the hospital, had walked inside and cleared his throat.

"Everyone out," he said, not angrily though, at least not as far as Clint could tell. The other agents filed out in good order. "Barton, you stay."

"Did I do something wrong?" Clint asked in a whisper.

"Not yet," Jimmy said, grinning.

"Agent Woo, I'll take it from here," the man said, and Jimmy passed him Clint's jacket (that's what they called the folder full of his stuff, he was getting used to the lingo) and left.

"Did _he_ do something wrong?" Clint asked.

"No. Agent Woo was training you. I'll be handling your training from now on. Come with me."

Clint followed him out into the narrow corridor, walking a half-step behind.

"Do I get to learn your name now?" he asked, as they walked.

"I am ASAIC Phil Coulson," the man said. Clint ran through the acronyms (many) in his training guide.

"Assistant Special Agent in Charge," he said.

"Very good. You can call me Agent Coulson."

"That is less of a mouthful."

Coulson led him up a flight of steps, on an indirect path towards what Clint thought was the bulkhead. "I have to admit I thought Woo was exaggerating when he described your abilities," Coulson said, as they walked. "I see that's not the case."

"He doesn't strike me as someone who exaggerates."

"No, I suppose not. Relatedly, it's interesting that you've chosen, while in training, not to fill in that eight year gap in your records."

"Didn't see how a sixteen year old's life was all that relevant."

"Oh, I think you did," Coulson said, keying himself in through a door with his ID and leading the way inside. Good; Clint hated when people held doors for him. Made him itchy between his shoulder blades. "But it's no matter. This morning we filled that gap for you."

"Oh," Clint said. His heart sank. He was getting to like it here; people didn't treat him like a freak for shooting well, and there was the free food. "Am I fired?"

"No," Coulson replied, leading him down another rather more well-lit hallway.

"But you know I was a carnie."

"I prefer to think of it as unorthodox vocational training," Coulson said, opening another door. Clint stepped inside and found himself in a small office.

There was a workstation filling almost half of one side, and a couch crammed against the wall of the other; on the wall between them was a large posterboard covered in paperwork. Next to it was a framed vintage poster, a bond sales ad from WWII with a cheerfully saluting Captain America. A shelf above the couch held a folded flag in a wooden case, like you got after military funerals (at least, so the television had informed him) and a photograph of a group of soldiers clustered around a plaque reading RANGER CORPS CLASS 266. Clint studied it.

"That's you," he said, pointing to one of the faces in the photo.

"Yes," Coulson said, sounding amused. On his desk were more photos: one of him and a tall African-American man, both in fatigues, and one of a young woman holding a baby.

"Family?" he asked, pointing at the woman. "Sister, right?"

"Why do you say that?"

"You don't wear a ring, and the kid doesn't look like you. The lady does."

"You don't miss much, do you?"

"Kinda in the job description."

"In your former career," Coulson said.

"Yep."

"Please, sit."

Clint sat at the chair on the near side of the desk; Coulson sat in the far one.

"I have your psychiatric evaluation from Woo," Coulson said. "Would you like to read it?"

"Why?" Clint asked.

"Curiosity. A chance at self improvement."

"I like me just fine."

"As you like," Coulson said, and set it aside. He offered Clint one of the handbills from his old circus act. "This is you."

"Yeah."

"Nice tights."

"My Versaci was in the wash."

He'd scored a point with that, he could tell. He'd used his computer to look up Versaci, though it took him a while to get the spelling right.

"Have you ever tested the limits of your remarkable aim?" Coulson asked.

Clint shrugged. "I can get a proton torpedo down a ventilator shaft."

Coulson looked up from the file carefully. "As amusing as Star Wars jokes are, I'm asking a serious question."

"I can hit what you want me to hit," Clint said. "If I'm not close enough to hit it, I can get close enough. Never had a problem."

"So you don't know your outer range."

"Not precisely. I can eyeball it and tell you whether I'm in range."

Coulson nodded. "The Helicarrier is making seafall tomorrow morning. We'll be docking off the coast of South Carolina. I'd like to take you off the ship and see if we can't get some measurements on your abilities."

"Why?" Clint asked, curious.

"So that we understand how to put you to use. What did you think your job would be here, Barton?"

Clint shrugged. "What Jimmy does. Spying on folks. Shooting the place up when it's called for. Y'all didn't ever really give me a read on that," he added, and then consciously stifled the accent that was emerging. The idea of someone studying him shoot that way made him nervous. There was a lot you could cover with flashy costumes and circus tricks that you couldn't in a black uniform with a guy like Coulson watching.

"Did you consider we might use you as a sniper?"

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"Figure you got guys for that already. I'm nothing special," Clint said.

"I doubt that. But, we'll soon find out. Pack an overnight bag," Coulson says. Then, thoughtfully, "Are you allergic to dogs?"

***

Of course Phil Coulson had a great dane.

Clint had answered his question without really wondering anything else about it, and he'd taken his orders to report to the jet bay the next morning. When he got there, Coulson was standing by the jet, and a large, beautiful blue point dane was sitting next to him, watching him adoringly. The dog shifted its weight slightly on its haunches when Clint came into the bay.

"New agent?" Clint asked, nodding at the dog.

"This is Senator," Coulson said. "He's friendly. Let him smell you."

"Sure. If I'd known I would have brought treats," Clint said, crouching to be at eye-level and offering his closed fist. The dog nosed at it, huffed, and scented the air. "You keep him on the carrier?"

"He's a registered service dog."

"Ah," Clint said, a little disappointed. "Not yours, then."

"No, he's mine."

Clint raised an eyebrow. "K-9 unit?"

Coulson smiled gently and said, "Senator, board," and the dog turned around, trotting calmly into the jet. "He's my service dog," he continued, following Senator in. Clint followed a few steps behind. "Technically he's a therapy dog. Gives me permit to keep him with me regardless of where I go."

Clint eyeballed him, wondering if Coulson was more unstable than he was letting on.

"It's a paperwork issue," Coulson said smoothly, which didn't exactly answer the question.

"Where's he pee?" Clint asked, because he was curious about where exactly you walked a dog in a place like this.

"That's very personal," Coulson said, but his smile widened a fraction. "The carrier has a hydroponics garden for water recycling and air scrubbing. It's quite a nice park if you know where to look. I try to keep him out of the other common areas. Doesn't do to show off the perks of the job."

"Huh," Clint said, sitting on a bench across from him. Senator sat next to Coulson's leg and leaned up against it, resting his head on his knee. Coulson kept up a steady, gentle scratching behind his ears as the jet took off.

"I found him on my last tour in the middle east," Coulson continued, looking down at Senator, who looked up with big dark eyes. "We went out on a tip about a possible weapons depot. Big oil mansion. Very elegant. Pretty much everyone had cleared out, but they left a bitch and two pups behind. She was dead of dehydration -- already drank the toilets dry -- but the pups were all right. Senator couldn't even see yet, but he got up and growled when I came in the room, trying to protect the others. He and his sister rode out in my pack when we left."

"What happened to her?"

"Used her as a bribe to get him on a transport back to the US with me, few months later," Coulson said calmly. "Some customs agent's kid has a really great dog."

"Not above bending the rules, huh?"

"Not for him," Coulson agreed, ruffling Senator's ears. There was a fondness in his face that was almost alien to Clint; he'd seen it rarely before SHIELD. "Mind you, he has his uses. I say the right word and he'll take your face off."

"Don't tell me what word," Clint said.

"I wouldn't worry. It's in Dutch."

"You speak Dutch?"

"I speak enough," Coulson answered. "Let's discuss today's exercise."

***

Clint honestly wasn't sure how well he'd done, at the end of the day. Coulson was a stone-face, no question; he'd run across a few, usually in law enforcement and very briefly.

They'd spent the day with bow, handgun, and rifle, plus a big ol' M40 bolt-action, sixteen pounds of officially sanctioned US sniper gear. The M40 took some getting used to; he didn't like how heavy it was, and he didn't like using it.

"I can get closer," he said, when Coulson set him up with a long shot only the M40 could carry off.

"Why?" Coulson asked.

"Don't like this thing," Clint said.

He expected to be told to shut up and fire; there'd been some of that in training. Instead, Coulson called Senator to him and sat him while he considered it.

"Prove you can get closer unspotted," he said. "How long do you need?"

"Unspotted from where?" Clint asked in reply.

That earned him a slight smile. "Anywhere."

Clint nodded. "Need about ten minutes."

"Take it," Coulson said, bending to pluck a few burrs out of Senator's fur.

He had to admit he was surprised, but he took off through the field, sometimes running, sometimes crawling, and when the shot rang out from the ordinary rifle he'd brought with him, he had the distinct pleasure of looking back and seeing mild surprise on Coulson's face.

They were quiet on the jet back to the Helicarrier that evening -- Clint tired, Coulson contemplative. Clint ate a protein bar and bound up a few blisters and one or two scrapes while Coulson fed Senator. He looked up in time to see Coulson toss a square of dog-treat jerky across the jet to him, and saw Senator track it with his eyes. He held it out to the dog, who got up and came to him, tail wagging.

"Aren't you the most beautiful thing on four legs," Clint murmured, as Senator tugged the jerky delicately out of his hands, settling on his haunches to chew it. "He must be purebred."

"I've never bothered with papers," Coulson replied. "Use is much more interesting to me than breeding."

"His use as a guard dog?"

"He has many uses," Coulson said, and Clint suspected they were having two separate conversations. "Not all of them immediately evident. He still surprises me sometimes."

"Do I surprise you, sir?" Clint asked.

"I suspect you will," Coulson replied.

***

Clint's first mission as a fully-fledged SHIELD agent was a cake walk; he was covering a team of agents who were doing all the hard work, busting down doors on an arms depot on the Texas coast. It could have gone south, but it didn't, and Clint spent ten hours in a sniper blind without firing a single shot. He preferred it that way, honestly. The way people looked at him in the halls of the carrier now, he knew what they were thinking. He'd been graduated straight from trainee to Specialist, and while he didn't have much experience as a professional sniper he knew that 90% of the job was waiting and the other ten percent was pretty much flat out killin' folk. Coulson was in charge of the op, efficient and brutal, and Clint took a liking to his managerial style, such as it was.

His second and third missions were likewise uneventful, and Clint was beginning to worry they weren't going to pay him for sitting on his ass watching other people do the heavy lifting. Then the fourth mission came along, and when he walked into the briefing room it was just him, Coulson, and the guy Clint recognized from the photo in Coulson's office, the tall African-American man -- older, and with an eyepatch, but undoubtedly the same guy. Coulson didn't introduce him, so Clint didn't ask.

"No team?" he said, settling into a chair.

"Not this time," Coulson said. He tapped a button on the desk, and the screen behind him filled with a mug shot of an extremely cranky lookin' guy. "Abraham Vucik. Your target."

"My target," Clint repeated.

"Yes. He's in-country. In New York, actually. This is an assassination," Coulson said, bringing up a map of New York. "He lives in a penthouse apartment with bulletproof glass, so you may need to get creative. Fortunately he has been on our list for a long time and isn't going anywhere, so you have time to work out an approach."

"You want me to kill someone in the middle of Manhattan?" Clint asked.

"Without drawing undue attention, yes," Coulson replied.

"What'd he do?"

"That's classified above your level."

Clint sat forward. "Nuh-uh. I've seen this movie."

Coulson raised an eyebrow. The other man in the room crossed his arms.

"This isn't an option, Barton. This is your mission," Coulson said.

"I don't kill people when I don't know what they did to deserve it," Clint replied stubbornly. "I get it, SHIELD is shadow-government and you -- "

"We," Coulson corrected.

"Whatever, we do what other agencies can't. I have no problem shooting someone to defend my team. But I don't go around shooting people I don't know did anything wrong. I don't know what SHIELD's charter is -- come on, not the official one," he said, as Coulson opened his mouth. "Whatever we get up to, maybe you know the endgame, but I don't. So you can tell me why I should shoot him or I can walk."

The other man in the room finally spoke. "Your six months are up, Agent Barton. You _could_ walk."

Clint blinked at him, rapidly doing the math. He hadn't realized it had been that long -- he'd forgotten about the probation period entirely.

"Then I walk, because this shit is too deep for me, and I don't even know who the hell you are, so I don't take orders from you," he said, standing. "Nice knowin' ya."

He could see the two of them exchanging glances, a silent communication as he left. When he reached the door, Coulson said, "Barton."

Clint stopped and turned, which was probably a mistake; they knew he _wanted_ to stay.

"This is Director Fury," Coulson said.

Clint swallowed hard. Director Fury. Director of SHIELD. As in, his boss's boss's boss.

"Don't make any difference," he said. "Unless Director Fury wants to give me a reason to stay."

Fury smiled slightly. "Sit your ass down, Barton. You're not getting off this ship without one of us giving the say-so, so stop bluffing."

"All due respect, Director Fury, go fuck yaself," Clint replied.

"Gentlemen," Coulson said quietly. "Clint. Sit down."

Clint sat, well aware that he looked like a sullen kid.

"Abraham Vucik is a foreign national operating criminal enterprises in the US," Coulson said. "I will brief you fully on his jacket, but not until he's dead."

"Why?" Clint asked. "What becomes so much less classified once I kill him?"

Coulson and Fury exchanged another look.

"Do you trust that I will brief you?" Coulson asked.

"Got no reason not to, but Coulson -- "

"And you trust that I'll tell you the truth?"

Clint gave him a look. "The truth ain't at issue."

"Then what is?"

"Whether what you tell me will have been worth it."


End file.
